Links of the Chain
by broomclosetkink
Summary: A dead man sits on Molly Hooper's vanity chair, pale skin like marble (bruises and lacerations veins in the stone), a cigarette between his fingers. 2013 SAMFA Winner, Best Romance in M Rated Category Nominated 2013 for Best Angst and Best Drama
1. Chapter 1

**Final Editing: 06/17/13**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing

A dead man sits on Molly Hooper's vanity chair, pale skin like marble (bruises and lacerations veins in the stone), a cigarette between his fingers. He flicks the ash into a cup half filled with tepid tap water, blows the smoke towards the open window, where the curtains flutter like bleached out, ghostly fingers, never taking his eyes off the sleeping woman.

The cold air hardens her nipples (pink, tight, and if he looks for too long he can feel them against his tongue, the roof of his mouth), raises goosebumps on her skin, but Molly never wakes. She sleeps on, mouth parted, only one leg remaining under her blanket. He can see marks on her once pristine skin; bruises in the shape of his hands, holding his finger prints, places where – in good light – she will be pink and red and maybe even purple from his mouth, his teeth, the raw scratch of his unshaven face.

If he were still alive, he would drown in guilt. He wouldn't even be here – this never would have happened.

But Sherlock Holmes is dead, and so he is free to drop the cigarette butt into the water, to move back to Molly's bed and curl around her.

_Molly, I think I'm going to die._

_What do you need?_

She's soft, so soft, and her hair smells like lemons. Sherlock covers them both with the warm blanket, wraps his arms around her stomach and holds one breast in his hand. With his nose against the back of her neck he thinks he remembers what it feels like to cry, what her tears taste like, and tries to push it away.

A good man would slip away, hide his face, never return.

But Sherlock Holmes is a desperate, greedy ghost, and she is the only thing he has left in the world.

He sleeps, his grip on her so tight he will leave new marks.

**-X-**

As he dresses, she sits on the end of the bed wearing nothing but a ratty old dressing gown, her hair tangled and her eyes red. Sherlock does his best not to watch her, not to see the rug burn on her knees, the love bite at the inside of her ankle, but he sees everything. (Too late, though, always too late...)

"I could go with you," Molly says, lips and fingers trembling. "I could help you."

Sherlock knows she would. He's almost asked her to come with him a hundred times already, has been swallowing the words until they clog up his throat. (He needs someone to keep him in line, keep him sane, keep him anchored to reality.)

"No," he answers shortly, threading his belt through a pair of ratty old jeans that belong to Molly's brother. (They're too big in the waist, too short in the legs, but he'll blend in, and that is all that matters.) "What could you do? You'd be in the way."

"I know," Molly agrees so easily that Sherlock's fingers pause and shiver.

"I can't worry about you while I'm taking care of...this. And John needs someone to look after him." This isn't what he wants to say, isn't what he has in his head (_I'd keep running forever to keep you away from them, we'd disappear and no one would find us again; but if you stay here I'll come back, I'll always come back_.)

"Yes," she half-whispers, nodding. "Yes, I know."

For a time, neither of them move.

"Promise me..." Tears drip from the tip of her nose, splash onto her hands. "Promise me you'll – you'll come back. Okay? You don't – we don't have to – it can be like this never happened. Um...us, I mean. I promise, okay? Just p-please..."

"You stupid..._stupid_ woman." Anger scorches Sherlock from the inside, a rage so deep and dark that it could blot out the sun, erupting with a force so great it nearly doubles him over. Doesn't she _understand_? Can't she _see_? So like them, so like them all; they see, but they do not observe, blind to what is staring them – _her_ – in the face.

_What do you need?_

_If I wasn't everything that you think I am – everything that _**_I_**_ think I am – would you still want to help me?_

Molly recoils, presses her hands to her mouth and shrinks down on herself. Sherlock lunges for her, grace lost as his knees hit the mattress, his hands catching her shoulders and pressing her down. Looming over her, vibrating with rage and desperation and something, something Sherlock can't name (refuses to name), he takes in her tears, her soft, hitching sobs, the way her dressing gown dips and gapes and shows more than it hides.

He kisses her so forcefully, so artlessly, that their teeth clack. He bites her lip, hard enough to break skin, to taste her blood (_life, this is life; he is dead, but she is alive, and he will drink her in until he is as warm and living as she is_). He has to fight to get his belt unbuckled, cursing into the skin of her neck until the jeans sag and give and fall below his narrow hips.

His hands catch her around the waist, slide her upwards, up until his mouth on is on her breast and as he kicks out of the blue jeans he knees her thighs apart. Holding himself above her with one arm, he snakes his hand down, between her legs, to find soft skin still wet from his mouth, his tongue (_she gripped the sheets, his hair, keened and cried and it was good, so good_). He strokes, presses, panting as Molly's hips lift and jerk.

"I _will _come back," he says, and there is a voice in the back of his head, panicked, _don't hurt her, don't hurt her; you are _**_above_**_ this_, but he's rough as he presses two fingers into her body. She groans, deeply, and there is _silence_ (silence that nothing, not even the morphine, had given him) in Sherlock's mind. "And you will still be here, Molly, you _will_; just like this, whenever I need you. Won't you? Won't you, Molly?"

"Sherlock!" She twists her hips, presses hard against him as he moves his fingers, and Sherlock finds he can think of nothing past her heat, how wet she is, how she sounds, how soft her skin is.

"Won't you?" he asks again, and again. "Won't you, Molly?"

"Yes, _yes_!" He kisses the side of her mouth, her cheek, the bridge of her nose, one fluttering eyelid. She whimpers when he removes his fingers with a soft, wet sound that makes him shudder so hard his toes curl. He catches her thigh, smearing her wetness across her skin as he pulls her leg up tight, tight against his hip and aching ribs.

He is not gentle (how can he be?). He does not press or push or _slide_ into Molly Hooper; he thrusts, like an animal consumed by baser instincts (_isn't that we all are, we humans, animals that walk on two legs and pretend pretend pretend; even you, Mr. Holmes, yes even you_), so hard that he thinks they'll be no separating them ever, ever again.

It was never like this before, the times he'd shot himself up until his mind was nothing more than the drone of a bee-hive far too close, just this side of painful; he'd fucked, and examined, and never really discovered much use for carnal acts. How _disgusting_, how base, how crude; fucking Molly is not like those brief times, no.

It is biological, yes, primal; it is also far, far too emotional. _Sentimental_. Did he know, somewhere in the back of the most lizard part of his massive brain, that it would be like this? Is that why he was cold, and cruel, and yet never quite managed to not notice her, to not drive off any competing male that so much as looked at her for too long?

_Yes,_ he thinks. _Yes._

"You will wait for me." He pants into her hair, bites the soft flesh under her ear just to hear her sharp noise of pained pleasure. Molly's nails dig into his back, hit bruises and press too hard against dislocated ribs, but it's good, it's good. He's _alive_, he is, no matter what everyone but he and Molly believe. "And there will be no one else, no one, Molly, _no one_."

Sherlock fucks her so hard that the bed creaks and groans and threatens to cave in; Molly writhes, one hand locked in his hair as she pulls herself up, kisses him until he is swallowing her cries and his name and everything, everything.

"No men," he gasps, sliding a hand between their bodies, pinching her clit until Molly shrieks, legs curling sharply around his body. "No women. No one, no one but me. Tell me, Molly, _tell me_."

"No one, no one." She's still crying, tears dripping down the sides of her face to become lost in her hair. "No one else, never will be – oh God, oh God, _Sherlock,_ please – I love you, I love –" Molly bites down hard on her lips, twists her face away even as Sherlock lifts her hips higher and finds a high he has never, never had before.

"Tell me again." He can just barely breathe; no matter how many gulps of too hot air he sucks in, it isn't enough. Molly is tightening, clenching, stomach taut as she gives those high, keening noises from the back of her throat that Sherlock knows means she's close, so close. "Tell me, Molly, you love me. _Say it_!"

"I love you, I love you, I love you," Molly cries, and Sherlock _breaks_. Every muscle in his body pulls taut, his hips surge, and there is fire blazing in his stomach, spreading outwards as he grits out her name, over and over and over, pressed tight inside Molly as he spills.

For a time, he can hear nothing other than the dull roar of his blood in his ears, the ragged gasp of his own breathing. Then come Molly's sounds as she struggles for air, the slide of her lips down his neck, across his shoulder as one hand rubs circles on the small of his back.

"I love you," she says, licking away his sweat. "I love you."

He rolls to the side, takes her with him. Her dressing gown is tangled around her, but he manages to free Molly's arms, tossing it across the room. He curls around her, into her, head on her chest as her fingers run through his hair, and Sherlock doesn't know if – after everything – he is strong enough to leave.

**-X-**

"My brother will come to see you. Soon, I would expect. Tell him I left this in your bag, before…" Sherlock doesn't finish the sentence, but still Molly flinches. She nods, back in her ugly dressing gown. He lays the envelope on her kitchen table, and hoists the backpack of supplies Molly gave him higher on his shoulder.

He thinks, he _knows_, that he should say something else. John would know what to say, what to do; but Sherlock is already too raw, too exposed, as though his skin has been peeled away, and his nerves are left bare and under attack. So he swallows, reaches out and runs his fingertips across the curve of her cheek.

_What do you need?_

_You._

"Tell me," he asks, thumb on her lower lip. "Tell me again."

"I love you," Molly whispers, catching his hand, kissing his palm. Her eyes are bright and warm and, yes, scared. So scared. "I'll be waiting."

He doesn't kiss her. (If he kisses her he'll take her on the table, on the floor, hide inside her body and forget what has to be done.) He simply nods, turns his back on her and leaves out of the dining room window. He clatters down the fire escape, into warm sunshine and cool air, and disappears into the crowd.

He still smells like sex and Molly and coffee. On the Tube he tucks his nose into his collar, closes his eyes, and knows (if he were a different man) he would cry.

**-X-**

Hours after Sherlock's departure, a blank-faced man with a waiting car arrives to inform Molly she has a meeting to attend. He doesn't tell her where they are going, but it isn't needed; Molly has been dreading this moment since Sherlock told her the plan, and the part she would play. Mycroft Holmes will have questions, and Molly only prays that she can keep her secrets locked away from him.

In what seems to be his home, Mycroft offers her a seat and tea, flips open the doors on a wall cabinet, and turns the flat screen hidden within on.

It takes Molly a few moments to realize what she is seeing. The video is black and white, a bit grainy, and lacking sound. But then she sees the date on the bottom of the screen, sees Sherlock's hair and her hands tracing his spine, realizes that this is where he lifted her to the lab table, pinned her hands and kissed her until she thought she would die.

"This video was taken hours before my brother's death." Mycroft speaks without inflection, taking a sip of his tea as he leans back in his own chair. "It baffles me, Dr. Hooper. My brother rejected both sentiment and what he believed were base, needless desires brought on by the weakness of flesh. And yet here the two of you are, seeming to greatly enjoy said weakness."

Molly takes a deep breath, sets down her tea cup, and stands. She crosses the room and closes the cupboard doors before turning to Mycroft, her arms tightly folded under her breasts.

She wants to curse, to scream, to throw every solid object she can lift into this cold, unfeeling face watching her every move. Instead she says, quietly, "I don't see how my brief relationship with Sherlock affects you in any way."

"Do you realize the level of trust needed for Sherlock to allow someone that close to him – without the addition of drugs, I mean. Despite all appearances, not even John Watson has been granted that level of closeness with Sherlock. It leaves me with questions, Dr. Hooper. Questions about your relationship with Sherlock, why you have been suspended from St. Bartholomew Hospital, and the reason you _chained_ the internal doors to the morgue shut, unhooked the security videos, and kept the world at large away from Sherlock's body for nearly two hours after his death.

"I think," he says with a smile that is rather snake-like, "there are several things that you need to tell me, Dr. Hooper."

"Mr. H-Holmes," she stutters over the name, cringes, almost stumbles. But she keeps moving, takes her seat, and does her best not to cry. "I chained the doors shut so they wouldn't...see him like that. It's the same reason I unhooked the cameras in the morgue. They, the um, the staff I mean...they mock him. Mocked. They are _cruel_, and they never – they never knew him –"

The tears come without prompting; all Molly has wanted to do since the morning he left is cry. So she does.

"He's so private," she mutters, unable to look up, to meet the gaze across from her. "He wouldn't have wanted everyone to...to see...that. Him...bare. Opened –" Hands over her face, shoulders shaking, tears flooding out everything around her, Molly feels sick.

The thought of Sherlock on her autopsy table is enough to shatter her.

Molly doesn't know what is more shocking; Mycroft offering her a handkerchief, or the pity in his eyes.

"Thank you," he says, so quietly that she just barely hears it.

Molly aches. She wants to tell him, tell him everything; Sherlock is alive, running, hunting, and she's so afraid for him, so fucking _afraid_. But she knows her role, her part, and so she says nothing, not a word.

"It was...it was absolutely Sherlock, then?"

"Yes," Molly whispers, her stomach aching from the magnitude of her lies. "Yes."

"I see. I had thought, perhaps..." Mycroft trails off into deep, brooding silence.

He steeples his fingers, leans back in his chair, and Molly falls _apart_. Thankfully, he is far too lost in his own mind to notice. Eventually, though, sometime after she has stopped audibly sobbing and the tears have slowed, Mycroft says, without ever taking his eyes off the fire in the hearth, "Your relationship, Dr. Hooper. Explain."

"He...that day...he came to me. I don't – I still don't quite know why, why then – but, um – well, it was obvious. How I feel about him, I mean. I...we...you saw. Um, you saw that."

"He said nothing to do you? Nothing about his...plans? About Moriarty?"

_Don't let me go_, Sherlock had half-begged and half-demanded, already inside Molly, his eyes wild and lost and scared. _Don't let me go, Molly_.

"No," Molly whispers.

"Did he leave anything in your possession?"

"Yes." At this, Mycroft's head shoots up so fast that Molly worries he's hurt himself. She takes her bag from the floor where she set it, rummaging inside until she finds the letter (thankful she'd stuck it in there after Sherlock left). "I just – just, um, found it in my bag. This morning. It's, um, it's for you."

There is such raw, honest emotion on this man's face that Molly feels like a voyeur as she passes the letter over.

Mycroft examines the envelope, like Sherlock would. He stands, crosses to his desk to retrieve a letter opener, and carefully slices it open as he returns to his chair. His fingers tremble as he pulls out the letter, and for a long, long moment, he does not open it. He simply holds it, breathing, eyes shut.

Molly takes a sudden interest in the floor.

The paper rustles as it is unfolded, and Molly keeps her gaze adverted, her hands folded tightly together in her lap. She can't help but look up at Mycroft's soft gasp. He stares at the letter as though it has revealed some great secret. Looking to Molly, he swallows, refolds the letter and places it back in the envelope. Mycroft tucks it into an inside pocket of his suit jacket, gently, with reverence.

"And your suspension?"

"I held the b-body of a...of a friend hostage so I would be the one to perform his autopsy. I'm suspended, and pending review."

"Do not worry, Dr. Hooper. If you wish to continue working at St. Bartholomew's, you will do so."

Molly knows enough about Mycroft Holmes, and his _minor_ position in the government, to not ask how he can possibly assure her of this. "Thank you," she says instead, offering him a small smile.

"May I ask you something, Doctor Hooper? Something...personal?" Sounding rather bewildered at the need or desire to do so, Mycroft tips his head to the side, eyes trained on Molly. She nods, nervously tucking loose strands of hair behind one ear. "Do you love him?"

"Isn't...isn't that rather, um, obvious?"

Mycroft nods, and Molly can't quite convince herself that it is only the light that makes it look as though there are tears in his eyes.

**-X-**

Molly's suspension is ended two days after her meeting with Mycroft, and she returns to work with a bowed head and little to say. Her co-workers avoid her, but that isn't exactly new. If she walks up on a conversation it tends to die, and she knows they're talking about her, and Sherlock, and how the papers say he's a _fake_.

She keeps her head down, her mouth shut, and tries to ignore it all.

**-X-**

Three months, one week, and two days after it all began, Molly buys three pregnancy tests at the chemists, and chews her nails the whole way home. At home she feeds Toby, stays up late watching TV, and goes to bed a little after one in the morning. The night is spent lying in bed with a pillow over her head, trying not to cry, not to panic, convincing herself that it's nothing, just stress, only stress.

She wakes sometime after six, eyes gritty and aching from a restless night. She doesn't bother with her dressing gown or slippers, simply shambles to the bathroom, opens the first box, and reads the instructions three times...just to make sure.

God knows how many liters of water and an hour later, every test has been taken. They are all positive, and Molly is strangely numb.

**-X-**

Molly went to university with Brandon Gates; they spent all-nights trembling from exhaustion and far too much coffee, drank themselves stupid upon occasion, and when he married his childhood sweetheart Diana, Molly was a bridesmaid. She was at each of three daughter's christenings, at every birthday party, and is their go-to babysitter when they need a night to themselves.

It was pure luck that they ended up at St. Bart's together. So of course when Molly has to go to an OB/GYN, it's Brandon she chooses, even though he makes terrible jokes about finally getting into her knickers, and has named the mole at the juncture of her hip and thigh Naughty Girl.

The blood and urine tests are positive, the ultrasound shows a tiny little fetus, right on track developmentally, and Brandon is quieter than Molly has ever known him to be.

"I know this wasn't planned," says Brandon, tapping a pen against Molly's file, the rollers of his chair squeaking as he jiggles one leg. "Do you know what you plan to do? There are options, Molly, if this isn't something you want. I know a wonderful doctor, a very discreet clinic –"

"No. I'm _not_ getting an abortion. It isn't an option." It was, actually, right until Brandon said it and Molly panicked. It's what she should do, she knows; Sherlock might as well be dead, she's not fit to be anyone's mum, and oh God, how will she explain? _How_?

When Sherlock returns..._if_ he returns...

"All right," Brandon answers mildly, "Adoption is another option. I can help find you a lovely family."

"I'm keeping it." Molly's voice seems to be coming back to her from a great distance.

She is?

Yes. Yes, she is. Sherlock can go bugger himself. She nearly lost her career for him, has been in love with the bastard for _years_, and he only seems to notice it when he needs something – like help faking his own death.

She will keep their baby. And if he wants no part of it when (if) he returns, then fine. She might not be a genius, but she has more than enough love for this child.

"All right. I'll make a note here to have your next appointment set up – a month, I think – and I'll give you a prescription to take to the chemists. Prenatal vitamins...well, you know the whole drill." Brandon busies himself with writing them out, tongue at the corner of his mouth. He asks, so suddenly that Molly can't find the time to think of a lie, "And the father?"

"He jumped off the roof of St. Bart's the day I conceived, according to your calculations." Oh yes, that is absolutely hysteria in Molly's voice. "I'm sure you saw the – the papers –"

Brandon gathers Molly in a tight hug as she falls apart, and she clings to him as though he is last solid thing left in the world.

"Oh, Molls," he whispers over and over, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. We'll get through this, yeah? Me and Di, we'll help all we can. The girls will be thrilled that Aunt Molly is having a baby. We'll make do. We will, love, we will."

"_Sherlock..._" Molly keens, and almost doesn't notice the wet heat of Brandon's tears slipping down the side of her neck.

**-X-**

When Molly leaves the hospital the next day, after a grueling twelve-hour shift and double homicide of a mother and her eight year old daughter (that sent Molly into hysterics so intense she locked herself in the storage cupboard and sobbed for twenty minutes straight), there is a black town car waiting on the curb. The door opens, and Mycroft leans forward just enough to be visible.

"Dr. Hooper," he says, unfurling one hand, "please, allow me to give you a ride home."

Molly doesn't have the energy to argue. She enters the car on the opposite side, the door opened by the driver. It clicks shut behind her softly, and Mycroft is silent until they enter traffic.

"I have seen your file with Dr. Gates. Fourteen weeks along; I certainly had not anticipated this."

Molly feels she should be outraged at his use of power; instead, she's absurdly grateful that she didn't have to tell him.

"Yes," she answers quietly, "I am."

"I do not know what your plans currently are, but if you have thought to terminate this pregnancy, I wish to tell you now that I will pay you very large amount not to do so. After the birth, I will take custody of the child, and you –"

"I'm keeping it." Twisting her hands together, Molly fights down a burst of anger so strong it makes spots appear in front of her eyes. "_I'm_ keeping it. Not you."

"I had thought you might say that." In truth, Mycroft sounds positively grateful, and as Molly looks up, she is shocked to see relief etched plainly across his face. "I am...glad to hear that."

They ride in silence. Mycroft exits the car with Molly, following her like a silent, umbrella wielding shadow. Once inside her flat, he hangs his coat and umbrella by the door, and Molly gestures him into her small lounge.

"Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, thank you."

Numbness is a blessed change from the fear and anger Molly has been flying in between since she took the first pregnancy test, and she's grateful to have it while Mycroft is in attendance. She doesn't think he'd quite know what to do if she broke into tears, or started hurling china at the walls.

She prepares the tray, setting out a plate of fairy cakes she'd baked yesterday. Once it's all ready she carries it into the lounge, setting it on the coffee table.

"Help yourself," Molly encourages Mycroft, catching the way his eyes linger on the cakes. "I bake when I'm nervous. Or angry. Or happy...um, I just bake a lot, actually."

Mycroft gives a wholly un-Holmes sound whimper of pleasure at his first bite of cake, before looking at Molly rather helplessly.

"Oh," he breathes, "they're quite good." Piling two more onto his plate, Mycroft busies himself with cakes, while Molly sips her tea and bites _hard_ at the inside of her cheeks to keep from grinning.

"I want you to be aware, Molly –" apparently, knowing she is pregnant with his supposedly dead brother's child put them on a first name basis – "that I will do everything in my power to protect both yourself and your child. Sherlock made enemies, and I have no doubt that they will come after his child."

"How would they know?" Molly asks, shaking her head. "I didn't...um, well, I just didn't think I'd tell anyone."

"Oh no, Molly, no. They will know. The chances that I will ever have children are...slim, to say the least, and while I never truly anticipated that Sherlock would do so, I had made provisions, just in case. I am glad, now more than ever, that I had the foresight. More than that, even, there remains Sherlock's last request."

"Um, last request?" Whatever it is, it must have been in the letter Sherlock left with her. Molly had wanted to open it, but it didn't seem right, or fair to either of them. Mycroft believed this was the last message he would ever receive from Sherlock (and if things went wrong, it might well be), and Sherlock trusted her to pass it on without prying.

"Yes. Did you not read the letter?"

"No, um, it just...didn't seem right."

"Hmm..." Mycroft widens his eyes just the tiniest bit, as though surprised at a show of ethics. (_Given his line of work, well..._) "He asked me to ensure your well-being, at any cost."

Stunned would be an accurate word choice to describe her, Molly feels. She _is _stunned, right down to her bones. Why would he...? He'd lost everything in one fell swoop, and so Molly could comprehend the sex, the intensity, his demands. But to ask _Mycroft_ to take care of her...?

"Oh," she squeaks, "I didn't...oh."

"With that in mind..." Mycroft reaches into his pocket, producing a folded envelope. He hands it to Molly, steepling his fingers as he does so. "This seemed the most prudent way to proceed."

Inside the envelope is a marriage license. Molly has to stare at it for a long, long moment before she comprehends that it is _her_ marriage license; _Mary Margaret Hooper_ next to _Sherlock Vernet Holmes_, and it's dated five months ago, with John and Mycroft as witness.

"No," she half gasps, "No – no, you can't – no. That's a lie."

"It is legal," corrects Mycroft, leaning forward. "It will keep you safe, and the child."

"But – but we're _not_ married, we never _were_ –"

"You were. 15th of April, 2012. Private ceremony, arranged by myself, and the only outside attendant was John Watson. Sherlock wanted it kept private to keep you safe, and you agreed."

"But –"

"_No_, Mrs. Holmes. No buts. These are the facts, now. No one but Sherlock Holmes himself could find out this is fake, and I dare say that he will not be doing so from the grave."

Molly wants to argue with him – she wants so badly it _hurts_. But there is something in Mycroft's eyes, something hard to place. It clicks, quite suddenly; Mycroft is afraid. He's putting her in the middle of some plan, a web, but perhaps this is the safest place he can find for her and his brother's child.

Besides, Molly has never been very good at saying no.

"John will never agree with this," she says weakly, looking down.

"Leave Dr. Watson to me, please. A car will arrive for you at half-ten in the morning. Please be waiting. And...do get some rest." Appearing vaguely uncomfortable issuing such an order, Mycroft quickly rises and moves to leave. Molly doesn't bother with showing him out – he probably has the plans of her flat tucked away in his office, already memorized. Besides, the door is tucked between the lounge and the little dining room; it isn't as though he can get lost, seeing how small the flat is.

"You know," Mycroft says while pulling his coat on, "it was me Sherlock took his first steps to. It is strange how such things become so important, after..."

Molly cries, and this time she thinks it is more for Mycroft than herself.

**-X-**

The car brings Molly to Baker Street the following morning, and Molly sits in the back for several minutes gulping in desperate breathes of cool air, trying hard not to completely lose her composure. She has no idea what Mycroft is planning, why she has been brought here, but God, it _hurts_. She wants to run inside the building, up the steps, find Sherlock at his violin in front of the windows, or lodged at his microscope; she wants him to roll his eyes at her tears, to pin her on his bed, to demand coffee, to call her John while he's lost in thought.

She just wants _him_.

"Ma'am?" the driver questions, twisting around in his seat.

"Sorry," she whimpers, "I – I was...thinking. So sorry."

When Molly steps into the building, she is nearly bowled over by the shouting. The door to Sherlock and John's flat is shut, and while the words aren't clear, the anger is palpable. Mrs. Hudson is hovering at the bottom of the staircase, one hand at her mouth.

"Oh, Molly dear," she breathes tearfully, opening her arms to her. Molly goes into the embrace willingly, if a bit stunned; she does not know Sherlock's landlady well, though since his 'death' the woman has constantly invited Molly over for tea and tears and angry rants that end with the old woman clinging to Sherlock's dressing gown and sobbing her heart out.

"What's going on?"

"Mycroft and John," Mrs. Hudson answers, shaking her head. "Been up there nearly an hour, started out awfully quiet. I brought them up a tea tray not long ago, walked in just as John _hit_ Mycroft. Well, I can't say that I haven't thought about doing it, but _really_ – we've all lost him, you know, and..." tossing her hands into the air in a helpless gesture, Mrs. Hudson trails off.

"Go have a rest," Molly urges the older woman, "go on. I'll take care of this."

"Oh no, Molly dear, I don't think –"

"I insist. Go on."

Molly doesn't wait around to see if Mrs. Hudson obeys. She mounts the steps determinedly, jaw so tight it aches. She pushes open the door to find John with his fists balled at his side, violently red and trembling; Mycroft is pinching the bridge of his bleeding nose, and pointing his umbrella threateningly at the doctor.

"_What_ the bloody hell are you two _doing_?" Molly demands, slamming the door behind her.

Two heads turn, four pairs of eyes blink owlishly, and Molly is surprised to find that she has exactly zero fucks to give after realizing she is about to have a Hooper tantrum worthy of her Aunt Caro.

"Mrs. Hudson is downstairs wringing her hands, with no idea what to do, while you two are up here acting like bloody _cavemen_! We've all lost him, do you realize that? We've all lost Sherlock; not just you Mycroft, and not just you John. _We are all_ in pain! And you know what? Considering I'm the one that's bloody well carrying his unborn child, I think if anyone gets the right to hit anyone else, _it's damn well going to be me_!" With this announcement Molly whips her purse off her shoulder, launches it into a wide, whirling arc, and soundly knocks John Watson in the head with it.

She then steps to the sofa and collapses, buries her face in her hands, and sobs.

"Ow," says John. "Um...did you just hit me? With your bag? Really?"

Molly sobs out something that might very well be, "Go _fuck_ yourself, John Watson!"

"All right then," he says faintly, turning back to Mycroft.

"I _told_ you I wasn't lying," Mycroft grumbles, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to mop the blood off his face. "And despite what you – or your fists – have to say on the matter, I have only the child's best interest in mind. As well as Molly's."

"Yes," John agrees quietly, "I think I see that now. But..._really_? Molly, are you sure? I mean that – that it's Sherlock's?"

"_No_, John, it's his twin Sherevil's baby!" Molly admits that it is entirely possibly that she is having a nervous breakdown. Once again, the fucks amount to exactly nil. "I was very much _there_, so yes, yes I am sure that it's his!"

"Well...is it...a petri dish sort of thing?"

The glare Molly bestows upon John is so forceful it makes him wince.

"You know Sherlock and his experiments," John defends, "it's a perfectly valid question."

"Seeing as I have seen the video, I can assure you that is not the case." Mycroft speaks in such a way that it is clear he would very much like to forget having seen said footage.

John, for his part, totters to a chair, falling into it as though his bones have become liquid.

"Video?" he asks faintly. "Sherlock _recorded _it?"

"Security footage from the lab," is Mycroft's delicate answer.

There is a long moment of silence, in which Molly wipes her nose and eyes with her sleeve, and tries to convince herself that bludgeoning John with the nearest solid object will not help the situation at all.

And then, quite out of the blue, John gives a snort of laughter. Then another, and another, until he's hooting, head tossed back, _roaring_ his amusement; but now he's crying as well, tears streaming as he rocks back and forth, clutching his stomach as though he's afraid he's going to fall apart.

"Oh dear," murmurs Mycroft, "I'm afraid we've broken him."


	2. Chapter 2

**Final Editing: 06/17/13**

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing

Molly knows full well that sitting back and allowing Mycroft and John handle her aren't the actions of a strong, independent woman, but she is _exhausted_. Her lies are growing so large they threaten to overshadow mountains, she's sure she is still in shock from discovering her pregnancy, and she's already sicked up the toast and tea she had for breakfast.

So really, on the list of her evils, allowing Mycroft to do what he does best (step in and give orders) isn't really the worst she's ever done.

"You will move in here immediately," announces Mycroft, still prodding his tender (thankfully unbroken) nose with one finger, while shooting John dirty looks at intervals. "No, don't argue, Molly. John is a former soldier, and I am quite sure he will be capable of defending yourself and the child should anything occur. I have kept the rent paid on this flat and will continue to do so, and tomorrow workers will arrive to begin refinishing the downstairs flat. Once it is complete, you will take it over; it has two bedrooms, more than enough room for you and the child. For now, at least."

Molly almost – _almost_ – argues with him. She likes her flat just fine, thank you; but where is she going to put the cot; jammed between the wall and her bed? In the dining room that has just enough room for a little table and two chairs, or the lounge that is already overflowing?

"I can pay my own rent," she says firmly.

"Now, Molly," responds Mycroft, in a tone of voice that suggests if he were anyone else the words would be accompanied with a pat on the head and a biscuit. "There is no need for that. Sherlock's inheritance belongs to you and the child, now. Save your money for other things. Nappies and...prams, perhaps."

"How many prams do you think she needs?" asks John from his chair, where he has retired with a beer and a cold flannel covering his eyes.

Mycroft ignores him.

"For now, I think it best that you take a sabbatical from St. Bartholomew's. I –"

"What?" Shooting into a fully upright position, Molly nearly dumps her tea in the floor. "No. _No. _I love my job, I'm perfectly capable of –"

"You are an excellent pathologist, of this I am sure. However, I do not believe it is safe for you to continue working at this time. Once things have settled, I see no reason that you cannot return to work then."

"My God, Mycroft, _where_ do you get off?" Yanking the flannel from his face, John shoots the elder Holmes a look so bitter and dark that it makes Molly flinch. "Molly is a fully grown, capable woman; I agree that the best place for her is here, yes. But telling her she can't work because she's _pregnant_ –"

"That is not what I'm saying." Mycroft's tone may be mild, but it has deep, dark currents of rage, so quick and deadly that they would drown even a strong man. "The public will, eventually, put two-and-two together. Molly's attraction to Sherlock has never been a secret, and rumors do spread. The hospital will be filled with them in a few months, and reporters _will_ catch on. Imagine the headlines; 'Fake Genius Leaves Behind Unborn Child.' It will be painting a target on Molly's back; everyone that has a grudge against Sherlock will come after her, and by extension, the baby."

He doesn't say _look how easy it was for Moriarty to get to her_, but then again, it doesn't _need_ to be said. Molly's blood turns to ice in her veins.

"Okay." Nodding her head once, Molly swallows hard before continuing. "I see your point. A sabbatical it is, then."

"You know what I don't understand?" asks John, flushed with anger. "Why you went and faked up papers so Molly and Sherlock are legally married. If that isn't 'painting a target' on her back, I don't know _what_ is."

"Some may see it that way," Mycroft answers coldly, "but there are others – far more intelligent criminals, I assure you – who will look at her and say, 'Ah, Sherlock Holmes' widow, the mother of his child; what wouldn't Mycroft Holmes do to ensure their safety?' Knowing the powers at my disposal, knowing that I will have little to no qualms in performing any actions necessary to ensure that my brother's child is safe, they will rethink any plans they may have on harming either of them.

"I am not painting a target on their backs," Mycroft ends coldly, "I am protecting them."

**-X-**

Mike Stamford is a truly sweet man, and Molly has always liked him. It makes this even harder.

"My God, Molly, why didn't you _tell_ us?" Wrapping her in a tight hug, Mike pats her back and hair as though she's his own daughter, and oh God, Molly misses her dad so much she could just _die_. "I just found out, came right down to see you."

Mycroft accompanied Molly to the meeting she arranged with personnel. To say that the tone of the room was incredulous would be an understatement of massive proportions. Meena had gaped as though her jaw was unhinged, eyes nearly bugging out of her head when Mycroft produced the marriage license.

"Sherlock didn't want anyone to know," answers Molly into Mike's shoulder, before pulling away. She curls arms around her stomach, wondering at how easy it is to speak the lie. "I...I didn't know what to do...after."

"Who would?" Mike commiserates. "Listen, if you need _anything_, anything at all, you let me know."

"Thank you, Mike, I will."

"At least there's the baby," Mike wedges a hand between Molly's arms to pat her stomach. "I can't imagine how hard this all must be, but well, the little one will keep you going. Keep you bright. They change your whole world, kids do."

"Yeah." If Molly nods any more, her head is going to fall off. "I'm very grateful that I, um...that I'll have the baby, at least."

Mike insists on carrying her box of possessions from her office outside, loading it into the cab for her.

"Like I said, if you need anything, just let me know. And when you find out what it is, come tell us."

"Um, of course. Thank you, Mike." He stands on the curb, waving as Molly's cab disappears into traffic. She watches him out the back window, feeling very much as though she has kicked a puppy and had it apologize to her for being in the way.

**-X-**

Mycroft puts his mother's wedding and engagement rings on Molly's finger, holding her hand between both of his own afterward. He seems to be taking in the sight of the rings on Molly's hand, a position they are wholly unused to; he turns her wrist this way and that, forcing the diamond to catch the light and glitter like a gold-set star.

"They look good on your hand," he finally approves, fingertips brushing over Molly's knuckles. His smile is sad, and far more open than Molly is used to seeing. "Mummy would have approved."

"This feels so wrong," Molly insists quietly, swallowing back bile at the heaviness of the rings. "Sherlock obviously...obviously felt _something_ for me, but your mother's rings – I just don't think –"

"Sherlock would have approved as well, I'm sure." Mycroft pats Molly's hand just once (quite a large display of affection from a Holmes, Molly knows) before releasing her.

Molly casts a pleading look to John, but finds no help from that corner. He simply shrugs and says, "Looks nice, Molls."

"Thanks," she mutters, "traitor."

**-X-**

Mrs. Hudson has an ultrasound picture of the baby on her fridge, held up with an _I Believe In Sherlock Holmes_ magnet. She has no idea that Sherlock and Molly _weren't_ secretly married in April, that it's all some elaborate game set up by Mycroft to stay one step ahead of the monsters hiding in the shadows.

The more time Molly spends with Mrs. Hudson, the more she forgets that she and Sherlock _didn't_ have some whirlwind romance. It makes her hide between his sheets at night, face buried in his pillow, tears fighting for freedom.

She's an awful, terrible person, and Sherlock will _never_ forgive her. But what else can she do?

**-X-**

221C, when finished, is a beautiful little flat. Mycroft sent over an interior decorator to help Molly choose colors and fittings and furniture; she throws herself into the shopping, for once not having to worry about spending too much, about making every pound stretch until it snaps. The smaller bedroom is transformed into a nursery with thick gray carpet and a papered walls, devoid of furniture and toys and nappies (Molly hasn't quite been able to bring herself to begin shopping for the baby).

John has been a wonderful flat mate in the two months they've been living together; he is tidy, considerate, and friendly. He raves about Molly's baking and cooking, becomes absurdly awkward when he finds her in the sitting room watching telly as she folds bits of laundry that include her unmentionables, and _completely_ understands when Molly cradles Sherlock's violin to her chest and sobs.

He is, however, incredibly overprotective. A fault which Molly can forgive when he appears in the sitting room, stiff and awkward and sad and hopeful, eying her nervously before asking, "Can I – may I – would you mind if...if I..." before gesturing to Molly's growing stomach.

"Of course," she always answers, while John scampers forward like an excited child, pressing his palms against the growing mound of her stomach. It's so strange when the baby moves, a fluttering pressure from the inside that Molly can't quite put into words.

"I felt that," John invariably says, "right against my palm." She doesn't know if he can _actually_ feel the movements yet, perhaps he's just so eager, but Molly doesn't have the heart to say this. So she smiles and rubs her stomach and if they both end up in tears, well, it's only to be expected, isn't it?

Today they're on the sofa, John with one hand on her shoulder, the other pressing a stethoscope against her taunt stomach. He frowns intently as he listens, eyes crinkled.

"You know," he says after a moment, without actually looking at Molly. "I asked him for a miracle. I asked him not to be dead. I think maybe...maybe we got the best he could give us. Don't you think?"

Molly can only nod.

**-X-**

Molly is having a boy. A little boy, with tiny fingers and tiny toes and, if there is any sense of justice in the world, with his father's beautiful curls. Molly has ultrasound pictures in an envelope, as well as a DVD featuring a lovely video of her son squirming (he's moving more and more often now), trying to escape Brandon's external prodding.

"A boy!" Molly's mum is gushing, as she has been for the past forty minutes. She's come up for this visit to St. Bart's, everyone in the family hoping to find out the sex of Molly's miracle baby (as her Aunt Caro has begun calling it), and was not disappointed.

Tulip Hooper was, of course, properly shocked when Molly called her with the news of her marriage, her husband's suicide, and her pregnancy. But Tulip is the sort of woman who looks at tragedy and finds inspiration, and well, if her daughter felt it was best to not tell her about her wedding ("I wish you would have at least taken _pictures_, dear, my goodness..."), there was a right good reason for it, wasn't there?

She is also incredibly, near violently, protective of the son-in-law she never met. A fact that is about to become very, very important as –

As Kitty Riley is trying to jam her way into 221 Baker Street, while poor Mrs. Hudson shouts, "I haven't got anything to say to _you_," leaning heavily on the door in an attempt to shut it, either by forcing Kitty to move, or by lobbing her foot off at the ankle through sheer blunt force. Whichever happens first, it seems to Molly.

"_You_," Molly and John hiss at exactly the same moment.

"What do you think you're doing?" shouts John, rushing forward. Kitty removes her foot from the door and turns on the stoop, lighting up as she spots Molly. (Molly feels she should be far more worried about the ex-soldier barreling towards her, but she supposes common sense is a gift not given to all.) "You get away from there, and leave her alone – leave us _all_ alone!"

"Mrs. Holmes!" The reporter somehow manages to dodge John, darting towards Molly. "News of your secret wedding and pregnancy is coming out, Mrs. Holmes, and I think it only fair that you be allowed to give your side of the story. Was it love? Were you frightened of him? Did he pay you to carry his child?"

Tulip lets out a noise exactly like a kettle at boil.

"Don't you _touch_ my daughter," she hisses, lodging herself between Molly and Kitty. The redhead stares at Tulip with confusion, before jamming a recorder towards her face.

"You're her mother? Do you have anything to say?"

"Oh yes. Yes, I _do_ have several things to say. Is this on?"

Kitty nods eagerly. Molly almost pities her.

Almost.

"Mrs. Hooper, um..." John steps towards them, looking rather bewildered at this turn of events.

"Not now, John." Tulip smiles pleasantly at him, folding her hands together in front of her.

Molly winces.

"Your reporting is atrocious, Ms Riley. You are a blight on the face of humanity. You claim to have broken the story on the so called 'fake' detective – how strange, isn't it, that while this Rich Brooke gave you so _many_ interesting details, my daughter was left out. As well as their wedding.

"You pushed a man into a desperate act, gave him no other choice," Tulip steps forward, completely over riding Kitty's desperate attempts to spit out a retort. "You have broken apart my family. And I pray for you, Ms. Riley. Yes, I pray that one day, when you find happiness, someone will do to you exactly what you did to my son-in-law."

"You – you don't know –" Kitty sputters.

Tulip smiles.

"Now remember dear, it's Tulip Hooper. Two O's in Hooper. Molly, come along." Tulip wraps her arm through Molly's, guides her up the steps and into 221 Baker Street, John following along behind.

"I'll go make us some tea," Molly's mother announces once they are all inside, giving Mrs. Hudson a one armed hug on her way to the staircase. "Molly dear, why don't you show Mrs. Hudson the ultrasound pictures and tell her the news?"

"Did you find out, then?"

"A boy," Molly confirms, surprised to find she cannot stop smiling. "I'm having a little boy."

**-X-**

**FAKE GENIUS' SECRET WIFE AND UNBORN CHILD**

For a time, Sherlock abandons his pursuit of Moriarty's criminal ring in favor of collecting rubbish American tabloids that are following the scandal of Sherlock and Molly Holmes across the pond. Pictures of Molly are pinned on his rented motel wall, John nearly always at her side; her stomach expands from week-to-week, a burgeoning mound of life under her clothing.

Mummy's wedding set is on the fourth finger of her left hand, and Sherlock knows from the very first sight of the rings the game that Mycroft is playing. Molly becomes the center of attention, unwanted though it may be, and with the backing of her supposed brother-in-law an unspoken, entirely threatening message is sent: if you think you can stand against me, please, do try.

It takes fourteen hours to hack into Mycroft's security surveillance of Baker Street, though Sherlock contents himself with knowing it would have taken, at most, two hours if he were willing to be discovered. As it is, his footsteps are minute and untraceable, and though he has drunk far too many terrible cups of coffee to keep himself going, he now has a view of home.

For the first time since he left London, Sherlock allows himself to actually _feel_ the loss.

221B is empty. His violin is in its case (a rare sight indeed), set on the mantelpiece beside his skull. The coffee table is covered in books about child rearing, dealing with gifted children (Sherlock feels it is an entirely logical conclusion to assume his child will be somewhat like his or her father, and approves John's reading choices), and things like _What To Expect When You're Expecting_.

The kitchen table is sparkling clean, with a vase of flowers right in the middle.

Several video feeds down is a new sight, one Sherlock wasn't exactly expecting. 221C has been remodeled, and Molly and Mrs. Hudson are in the kitchen, chatting quietly while working on fixing a meal. The sitting room is dotted with neat stacks of tiny, folded clothing; rompers and jumpers and exquisitely little shoes.

And in what can only be a brand new nursery, Sherlock finds John, Lestrade, and – wonder of wonders – Mycroft. Mycroft out of his suit jacket, umbrella nowhere in sight, and his shirt sleeves rolled up as he scowls frightfully at a large, unfolded pamphlet of instructions.

"What kind of idiot did they pay to write this drivel? It doesn't make sense!"

"I did try to tell you." John looks ragged, bags under his eyes and new lines adding age to his face. He's wielding a screwdriver as another man might a firearm, crouched down as he attempts to assemble what can only be a crib.

"What the _blast_ do you mean, insert section 22B into 34G?" Mycroft appears close to lighting the instructions on fire, and Sherlock cannot suppress a snort of amusement. (It hurts, though, like there's a knife between his ribs, far, far too close to his heart.)

"Throw the bloody things away," Lestrade orders, "we don't actually need them. Look here, John and I have got this part together."

"It's backward," Sherlock points out roughly, his eyes burning.

"It's backward," Mycroft points out after a moment of examination.

John appears frightfully close to committing a homicide.

"Lunch is ready," Molly appears in the doorway, one hand seemingly spot-welded to the small of her back, the other rubbing her stomach in absent minded circles. "Take a break and come eat."

"Thank God." Lestrade drops his tools and bolts to his feet, pausing near the doorway to kiss Molly's cheek. "Is he kicking?"

_He_. Male. It's a boy. Molly is carrying Sherlock's son.

_Oh_...

"Practicing Judo, I suspect," Molly answers with a faint smile. Lestrade palms her stomach, bending over to give it a bit of a kiss.

"Stop being a prat, and be nice to your mum," he orders, "you best mind your Uncle Greg, Junior, I'll have to arrest you."

"_Please_ do not call my nephew 'Junior,'" Mycroft sneers, tossing the instructions to the top of the changing table behind him. "He is Sherlock Vernet Holmes the third."

"Christ, do you want Junior to get beat up?" Lestrade asks, squeezing past a Molly who is rolling her eyes so hard it appears they may come loose.

"He isn't Sherlock the third," John insists, scraping a hand through this hair. "He's Hamish."

"Call the boy whatever you like," Mycroft announces with his nose in the air, "I can and will change the documents."

"_Hamish_," inserts Molly, "and unless you are somehow going to be the one giving birth, Mycroft, it will _stay_ Hamish."

Mycroft seems to see reason in not arguing with the woman carrying his nephew, and glides from the room with the air of one who is ignoring everything he doesn't want to hear.

Molly's stomach ripples under her loose shirt, and Sherlock nearly chokes on a surge of emotion. That's his child, _their child_, their _son_, moving in her belly; stretching and rolling and kicking...Molly winces and smiles at the same time, patting her belly, while John rushes over to press his palms against her stomach.

"Amazing," John swears in a worshipful fashion, "feeling that, I mean. Can't wait until he gets here. We'll tell him all about his dad. All about the wonderful things he did. The lives he saved, the cases he solved..."

"If you had your way, he'd be out solving crimes by age six."

"Well, if he takes after Sherlock..."

John and Molly laugh, and it's – it's almost too much. Sherlock wants to be there, _right there_; a hand on Molly's stomach, feeling his son, putting the cot together correctly, arguing over his name.

Sherlock does not sob. He never, not once, makes a sound. Tears fall all the same; but in this, Sherlock finds a new resolve he has never, never known before.

He _will_ topple the remains of Moriarty's organization. He will return home. And, though it is probably not for the best (_he will let Molly down, he knows he will, it is inevitable_), his son _will_ know his father.

**-X-**

"Molly. Molly dear, wake up now." Mrs. Hudson has a rather specific way of waking one up; she tip-toes quietly, whispers gently, and shakes the sleeper with enough force to make Molly believe the house is falling down around her ears. She tries to bolt upright, but her rapidly expanding girth makes the motion impossible, leaving her to flop onto her back and flail like a turtle.

Mrs. Hudson helps Molly upright, tucking pillows behind her back while Molly blinks sleep from her eyes and attempts to banish the lingering haze of unconsciousness. She had been having such a lovely dream that she almost wants to cry at leaving it; Sherlock was here, tucked warmly against her back with one long hand curled protectively over her stomach. No ranting or raving, no rushing about or demands for coffee...foolishness, really; if Sherlock _were_ here, he wouldn't be content to cuddle in bed and wait for his son to kick or squirm or throw elbows.

But that's the nature of dreams; unreal, and yet so beautiful and longed for that it makes Molly's hands quiver.

"Is something wrong?" Molly asks around a yawn, trying to stretch enough to force her back to pop and failing entirely.

"You've got visitors, dear. I brought them to your sitting room and gave them tea, told them it'd be a minute for you to get ready, that you were down for your afternoon nap. How's your back?"

"Aching," Molly answers with a tired smile. "Which isn't unusual. It's not reporters pretending to be long lost cousins again, is it?"

"No, dear, it's – well – it's Sherlock's father and step-mum." Mrs. Hudson wrings her hands nervously, biting at her lower lip. "They had quite the falling out, you know. I don't know what it was about, but Mr. Holmes came to Baker Street a few times, tried to speak with Sherlock, he'd have none of it. I didn't know if he'd told you about all that before – well, before. I didn't know if you'd want to see them, but they brought gifts for little Hamish, and I didn't feel right turning them away."

"No, of course not," says Molly, struggling to gain her feet. "I'll just get dressed. Thank you so much for doing all this, Mrs. Hudson. I really do appreciate it."

"We're family now, dear. I'm just glad you're here, and that I'll get to watch this little one grow up."

Molly dresses in record time (for her current condition, at least), forgoing shoes in favor of jamming her feet into house slippers; her feet and ankles are so swollen that trainers are painful, and besides, without John to help, she can't get them tied.

She enters her sitting room to find Mr. and Mrs. Holmes side-by-side on the sofa. Sherlock's step-mother is shockingly plain; plump, with dark hair and eyes, and she looks as though she has recently been crying. Mr. Holmes is a living representation of Mycroft in thirty years or so, though Molly can see a bit of Sherlock around the eyes.

"Oh," Mr. Holmes breathes, eyes locking on Molly's stomach. He gives a sound of pain, fingers tightening around his wife's as he turns as white as a sheet. "Oh, God..." Covering his mouth with one hand he closes his eyes, shoulders trembling violently.

Molly has exactly no idea what to do. What can she possibly say? This man is grieving his son, meeting what he believes to be is said son's pregnant widow...she wants to cry, or scream, or break something. She is so tired of the lies, but most of all she is tired of _wishing_ she could hate Sherlock for putting her in this position and knowing she can't. He is selfish and cold and so afraid of being hurt that he doesn't allow anyone (her) close, but she still loves him, loves him enough to help him die and hide, to carry his child and outwardly grieve his loss, while every day fearing that he will never come home.

"I'm so sorry," she finally whispers. "Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Holmes?"

The look she is given is one of pure incredulity.

"Something you can do for _me_?" he asks, and Molly immediately fears she has offended him, wincing as the man bounds to his feet and paces to her. His movements and gestures are so much like Sherlock that it actually makes her chest ache. "My dear, dear girl, what more could you possibly do? You are bringing into this world my first, and likely only, grandchild; you stayed close to my youngest son, despite how desperately he drove everyone away; my God, you even _married_ him! You...you have already done more for me than I could have ever hoped for."

What can Molly _possibly_ say? She hasn't any idea, not really; and besides, she's choking down ugly-sounding sobs at his words, pressing one hand against her mouth in a desperate bid to keep them inside. Mr. Holmes takes Molly's other hand, pulling her toward the sofa. She settles awkwardly between him and his wife, startled when Mr. Holmes brings a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing Molly's tears from her face as though she is a small child.

"I'm sorry," says Mr. Holmes, still tenderly wiping Molly's face, "I didn't mean to upset you. I'm even more sorry that I haven't come to visit with you sooner."

"You weren't at Sherlock's funeral." It's not that Molly wants to send the man into a spiral of guilt (well, perhaps only a _little_, because honestly, what kind of parent doesn't attend their own son's funeral?), it's just that she has questions. Sherlock spoke rarely of his mother and never of his father, in Molly's memory. And yet it's obvious that Mr. Holmes cares for his son, so why...?

"Mycroft made it clear that I was not wanted," answers Mr. Holmes quietly. His wife is stiff at Molly's side, biting hard on her lower lip as she stares down at her knees. "The boys never forgave me after I remarried, you see, Sherlock especially. I will always love my Violet, but Natalie – my second wife – she brings out in me emotions I tried very hard to keep locked away. The boys resent that Natalie receives far better treatment and so much more affection from me, considering how...cold I could be towards their mother. And them."

Mr. Holmes twists his handkerchief between his hands, looking away.

"Sherlock takes after me. He was incredibly sensitive as a child, and as a result, locked away his emotions. It's my fault, what's happened. All the terrible things that happened to him. Mycroft has every reason to hate me, as did Sherlock..."

Mr. Holmes trails into a brooding silence, while his wife shoots a hot glare at him from over the top of Molly's head.

"We were so thankful to hear about the baby," Natalie says (Mrs. Holmes, to Molly's mind, remains Sherlock's mother; his step-mum has such an open, honest and kind face that _Mrs. Holmes_ seems too distant; she seems the sort to gossip with over a cuppa, to pour out ones problems and know they always be well and gently received), taking Molly's hand with a smile that is only slightly strained. "Sherlock's death was a blow to us both, but knowing a part of him will go on...it's such a blessing. A gift from God, if there ever was one."

Molly nods, tearing up again. _Bloody_ pregnancy hormones, she's a wreck day-to-day. Spent nearly two hours sobbing yesterday, and all over a damn commercial for nappies; of course hearing that their son may be her very last link to Sherlock (knowing that to everyone else, he already is) is enough to make Molly feel as though she's being stabbed in the heart.

"I know Mycroft won't approve, but...I was hoping that you might allow me to see him sometimes. To...to be a part of my grandson's life." Mr. Holmes' eyes dart from side-to-side, resting on Molly for just a few moments before looking _any_where else. His fingers twiddle nervously, and Molly has to bite her lip; how many times as she seen Sherlock do the same, when crammed into an awkward position? Well, all right, not _often_ (Sherlock is fairly hard to rattle), but each memory is vivid.

"Of course you can," Molly answers, nodding firmly. "If Mycroft doesn't approve, well, he can...he can just bugger off! _I'm_ Hamish's mum, I get to decide who is a part of his life."

"Is that what you're naming him? Hamish?" Natalie asks, her dark eyes lighting up as Molly nods. "Oh, I like it, I really do. Oh, we picked up a few things for him, and you. Let me get –"

"No, no; you stay there, with Molly. I'll get them." Mr. Holmes bounds up, trotting into the kitchen, where the table has been piled with bulging bags and boxes of all sizes; Molly is shocked she hadn't noticed it before now.

"We might have gone a bit overboard," Natalie admits as her husband puts a teddy bear nearly as tall as he is in a headlock, hooking bag handles over his wrists so he can carry more at once.

"Hamish is the first grandchild for my mum, too. She's threatening to move to a bigger house, so she has more room for baby things. I suspect it's the privilege of a grandparent."

"So glad you've said that." When Natalie smiles she glows, and her hand is warm as she takes Molly's. "I hope we'll become friends, you and I. You should come visit us, we aren't too far outside of London. I have just the room in mind to turn into a nursery; big windows, so it's sunny and bright, and _lots_ of space for toys."

"I've already bought a play set for our garden," Mr. Holmes admits, thrusting a slender clothing box into Molly's hands. "I hope you don't mind. Here, open this first."

The very first gift Hamish receives from his grandfather is a onesie that reads _I Believe In Sherlock Holmes_, and Molly ends up sobbing on Natalie's shoulder.

**-X-**

A week before her due date, John has a bit of melt-down.

"You're going to have a baby," he says, head tipped to the side as he stares at Molly's stomach. "A real, proper baby. A...a baby _Sherlock_."

"Yes," Molly answers slowly, lowering her book. "I thought perhaps you might have realized this several months ago."

"Yes, yes I knew. But...but a baby...a _Sherlock_ baby." He begins to twitch and shiver, eyes growing round with horror as he scrubs his hands over his face. "What'll we do, huh? What'll we do when Hamish starts walking and talking, and deducing other kids on the playground? His _teachers_? Or – or when he finds the true crime novels, and starts trying to follow Greg to crime scenes? What'll we do if he really is a _tiny little Sherlock_?"

"What are the chances though, really? One in a million. Sherlock isn't here for Hamish to mimic, I doubt that he'll be a replica of his father."

"But what if he _is_? This is Sherlock's DNA we're talking about, maybe deducing is passed down from father to son. My God, he might learn it from Mycroft."

"How about some tea," Molly suggests, as she doesn't quite know what else to do. Lumbering out of what will probably always be thought of as Sherlock's chair (even if he never returns), she makes a hasty path to kitchen. She prepares a tray and brings it out, sitting it on the coffee table while John bends so his head is between his knees, gasping irregularly.

"I feel like a dad," he gasps, "and I'm not. It's worse. Sherlock's his dad, and I'm going to help raise him, and my God, Molly, _what are we going to _**_do_**?"

"Take it one day at a time." Nodding firmly, Molly gives John her cheeriest smile.

He begins to hyperventilate.

Half an hour later, John is tucked under a blanket on the sofa, the paper bag he had so recently been gasping into tossed to the floor.

"Sorry about that," he says drowsily, patting Molly's hand. "I had a bit of a...I'm just sorry. I need to be stronger. For you and for Hamish, when he gets here."

"You don't have to be strong at all," Molly assures him, "it's enough that you're here, and that you care."

John's smile is sad on the edges (it nearly always is, now that Sherlock is gone), but it is also sweet and true and so incredibly kind. Not for the first time Molly is thankful that whatever the future holds for herself and her son, it will include John Watson, who has become such a dear friend in the past months.

"I can see why it was you," says John as his eyes closes, fingers curling around Molly's hand. "Why you were the one that really got through to Sherlock. Got under his skin."

"I was just the one that was there." It hurts to admit, but it's true. He saw her, but it was because she was the only one that could help – that _would_ help him. Having a clever pathologist that is a desperately in love with him certainly made it easier to fake his death.

"No. No, I think it was more than that. You were special to him, Molls."

As John slips into an exhausted sleep, Molly covers her mouth and cries.

**-X-**

On the morning of Molly's due date, Mycroft arrives at Baker Street for a breakfast prepared by both Molly and Mrs. Hudson (admittedly, it is mostly Mrs. Hudson's doing), and Molly finds nothing unusual in this, as Mycroft often pops in and out of Baker Street nowadays. He seems to be eager for the birth of his nephew, always bringing in some odd or end; extra bottles of liquid antacid for Molly (she's had terrible heartburn through nearly the entire pregnancy), books he thought she might enjoy, whispered conversation for John's ears only, and – once – a soft teddy bear in a suit and a fuzzy umbrella in one paw (while Molly and John kept their mouths shut about it during his visit, afterward John laughed until tears leaked from his eyes, and Molly put on a Mycroft the Bear puppet show entitled _How to Start a War Before Tea_.)

The day becomes unusual when he does not leave. Mycroft settles at the kitchen table with a pile of folders and a slim laptop, carries on phone conversations in an undertone (or in the hall with the door shut), and shoots intensely probing looks at Molly when he believes her notice to be elsewhere.

"You know," John remarks close somewhere around noon, while shuffling through take-away menus in an attempt to find something that sounds appetizing for lunch, "it's not at all uncommon for women to over-carry during their first pregnancy. Hamish may not come for another few days."

"Yes," answers Mycroft in a tone that suggests he is sorely offended at being called out on his actions, "I'm aware."

Mycroft continues to work at Molly's table.

John sniggers and returns to the menus.

Molly rubs her stomach and finds herself unable to stop smiling; no matter all the sadness and despair and lies that began this pregnancy, she feels blessed to be surrounded with this strange, ragged, oddly stitched together family.


	3. Chapter 3

**Final Editing: 06/17/13**

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

Now four days past her due date, shortly past one in the morning, Molly wakes with searing back pain and an uncomfortable wetness. Tossing her blankets aside, she hastily turns on the bedside lamp before perusing her sopping nightgown, bedsheets, and mattress. Brandon had hoped this would happen, as did Molly, though they had scheduled her to arrive at St. Bart's at five AM in two days time, where she would be admitted and her labor would be induced.

Those plans are officially on the wayside.

"John," Molly calls, wincing as she stands and leaks on the carpet. This isn't remotely as glamorous as Hollywood makes it out it be, though she was thankfully prepared for it by medical school and residency. Through the open door of her bedroom, she can hear John snoring away, no doubt sprawled across the pull-out sofa and oblivious. "John!" she calls again, finally making it to her feet.

Snorting as he wakes, John rolls onto the floor with an audible thump before dashing into Molly's room. Hair sticking up and dark circles under his eyes, his mouth still manages to pull into a grin of excitement. "Now? Is it now?"

"My water broke," Molly confirms, her waddling accompanied by squelching noises as she heads to her dresser. "I'm going to clean up and change and call Brandon. Why don't you call Mycroft, then get my bag?"

John's off like a shot, and Molly takes her time. She calls Brandon while pulling out clothing, mobile tucked between her shoulder and chin.

"Molls?" despite answering the phone with a yawn, Brandon seems alert enough to suggest he had only been half asleep. "Is it baby time?"

"I'm getting dressed now."

"I knew he'd come along in his own time!" Suddenly as chipper as a young boy asked on his first date, Brandon all but whoops. In the background Molly can hear bedsheets rustling, as well as Diana's eager questions.

"It's Molly, isn't it? She's having the baby! Go – go, move, Bran, go!"

"Ow, _ow_, Di!" A pause, and then, "she kicked me," Brandon informs Molly sulkily.

"Take your time, I think we have a while."

"Famous last words," he warns, before hanging up.

By the time Molly has cleaned up and changed, John is practically dancing in place waiting for her. "Mycroft had a car on standby, it should be outside," he informs her when she appears. "He's going to meet us at the hospital. I've got your bag, and my bag, and Hamish's. Do you need help?"

"Your hands are full enough," Molly answers with a small laugh. In the moment, her nerves and fears have flown away, leaving her joyous and content. Could there be any more blessed, blissful moment in her life, she wonders, than in the hours preceding her son's birth, knowing she'll soon have him in her arms?

**-X-**

Labor progresses much like a horse race or gunshot. Molly, John, and Mrs. Hudson (who refused to stay home and wait for a decent hour to come to the hospital), pack themselves into the car and begin the short trip to St. Bart's. Molly smiles dreamily out the window and thinks of pastoral scenes, the countryside on a summer day and Hamish held to her breast, while Molly soaks in nature in its purest form.

And then, quite without warning, the pain begins in earnest. Hands scrabbling for purchase, Molly braces her feet against the back of the seat before her, fairly howling as liquid fire scalds her insides. Mrs. Hudson wrings her hands, while John tosses himself onto his knees beside her. It's strange, watching him change from a doting, concerned, brotherly figure to Dr. Watson. He checks her over; at least, he checks her best he can while in a moving car. Molly is more than simply _thankful_ he stuffed a small package of medical gloves into his pocket; he deserves an award for preparedness.

"Hurry," he almost, but not quite, shouts at the driver. Turning back to Molly, he gives her his best, sympathetic bedside smile. "Hamish seems to be ready."

By the time they reach St. Bart's, Molly has forgotten her quaint idylls of country life with her son. Far from it, she's locked in her medical mind, where she _knows_ what is happening, and is terrified by it.

"Precipitous labor," she grunts out, by now clinging to the arms of a wheelchair. "Last check dilated seven centimeters, heart rate – heart rate – _aggghhhh_ –"

"Shhh, Dr. Holmes, we'll take care of you." The nurse is young and sweet looking, and takes Molly's hand. She doesn't wince at the no doubt bone-grinding grip it's given, and Molly once again appreciates those called to this job.

-X-

Brandon Gates arrives to just over eight centimeters dilation, a grim John Watson, a sweat-drenched Molly Hooper-Holmes (in danger of gritting her teeth so violently she breaks a few), and a truly _hysterical_ Mycroft Holmes.

"Where have you _been_?" the eldest Holmes demands upon the doctor's entrance, brandishing his brolly in the same way a knight errant might a lance. "Things are _happening_, Doctor, and I do not appreciate –"

"Molls," greets Brandon mildly, breezing past Mycroft. He and John share a nod, while Brandon snaps on his gloves and takes a peek below the sheet tented by Molly's knees. She has a moment of rest, and flings her forearm over her eyes as she breathes deeply. "Seems like we'll have young Mister Hamish here before too long, won't we? I'm going to wash up."

"Wash up?" Mycroft demands, perhaps with even a hint of squeakiness to his voice. "There's no _time_ for that, man, things are _happening_!"

"Morphine," Molly says tiredly, lifting her arm to give Brandon a pleading look. "For my brother-in-law. Please."

John gives a great snort, before turning determined eyes to the fetal monitor, watching as it spikes with another contraction. Molly hisses, jaw tight as she fights every instinct in her body to _not_ bear down. For months, _months_, she's been preparing herself for a long labor.

This, a labor that moves at the speed of light, it isn't something she anticipated. The pain grinds at her self control, eradicates her strength. Nearly sobbing as John takes her hand, she clings to it, neck cording. One of the nurses fits her with an oxygen mask, and as the contraction slows, Molly sags against her pillows.

**-X-**

Two hours after waking up to find her water broken, without a single pain killer, Molly wails as Hamish's head begins to crown. It burns, like she's been pulled open, but she locks her jaw, cutting her noise of pain and determination off.

"...four, three, two, one; and relax. Good job, Molly. You're doing great." Panting, Molly falls back on her elbows, lifting her face towards the ceiling. She'd murder for a cool breeze, for privacy, for Sherlock's cold hands and harsh criticism and deductions of _everything_ going on around them. Instead she has John, sturdy and calm; nurse Beth the command giver; and a sagely professional Brandon. She begged Mycroft to leave, for his own sake, though it was ostensibly to keep Mrs. Hudson company.

"Look at that hair," say Brandon with adoring wonder, eyes bright behind his face shield. "Breathe for me, Molls. You want to feel him?"

"I want to hold him," Molly corrects, moments before the oxygen mask is back in place. She gulps the cold, sterile air gratefully, before she's bearing down again. She's beyond pain or trauma or even agony; she can only push, straining to bring forth the life she has nurtured for so long. A gasping sob leaves her as sweet relief comes, the baby sliding free in a gush of fluids and blood, leaving Molly to collapse wholly against her pillows even as she struggles for a proper breath.

Tears come when she hears the sweet, womb-clenching screams of her son for the first time. At her side, John is openly weeping, clinging to her hand while Brandon lays Hamish across Molly's stomach. Hamish is angry all over, bright red and howling, with a mop of matted damp curls.

"Would you like the honors?" Brandon asks John, while the nurse offers up surgical scissors; but all Molly can see her son, and all she can hear is his voice.

**-X-**

Hamish Nathaniel Vernet Holmes looks like his father. Under round baby cheeks, his bone structure is elegant and angular; his eyes are dark blue, silently scolding whomever may disturb him from the peace of his slumber; there is a bit of Molly about his chin, which threatens to be sharp, and something about the shape of his eyes that speaks of his mother. He's perfect and beautiful, and Molly has never, never known love like this in her _life_.

Thirteen hours old now, at birth Hamish weighed an astonishing 4.8kg, while measuring 48.26cm; Molly is astounded that she carried such a large baby without exploding. He's chubby, delightfully so, with dimpled hands and a pink, puckered mouth that makes Molly's insides turn to liquid with adoration.

Molly is more grateful than ever for Mycroft, who stationed bodyguards outside her door, outside the entrances to the maternity ward, and God knows where else. While no one will admit it to her face, Molly's has heard the staff gossiping about the photo-journalists and tabloid photographers that have been bounced out of the hospital before they could even get on the same floor as the maternity word, a fact for which she is thankful.

The door opens and whispers shut; footsteps, quiet and faint, move across the floor. Molly pays no mind, too engrossed in Hamish to care about the staff come to check on them. She knows it isn't a visitor; Aunt Caro and John are keeping everyone away, citing Molly's need for privacy and rest. Both are sorely needed, as well as quiet bonding time with her beautiful boy.

"Molly."

Jolting so violently she disturbs her son, who is swaddled tightly and dozing against her chest, Molly's heart actually stutters. It isn't dream like, not at all; instead, everything is clear. The sun coming in the slatted blinds, the lowered florescent glow from the dimmed room lights, how everything smells of baby and astringent and plastic.

She'd know that voice anywhere.

Sherlock is standing near the end of her bed. His hair is short, faintly curling on the ends, and dyed blonde. He wears scrubs and a lab coat, a stethoscope around his neck, a pen and prescription pad in one pocket, and a folded down surgical mask is under his chin. His hands are limp at his sides, though his eyes flicker from Molly's to the newborn fussing.

"Sherlock?" she asks, in a voice so quiet it's nearly a whisper. "Is it safe?"

"No," he admits without hesitation, taking a step forward. "But I'll be quick."

Months of waiting to see him, of praying for his safety and return, and yet Molly can't think of anything to say. So she waits for him to make the next move, gently soothing Hamish.

"May I...?" Holding out his hands, Sherlock appears more uncertain than Molly has ever seen him before. She doesn't miss how they tremble, or how gaunt he's become. "May I hold him?"

"Of course," she answers, and he comes forward. He doesn't take Hamish right away, no; he bends down, presses his nose into her hair, brushes his lips against her cheek. He smells of cigarettes and disinfectant, and the way he sighs makes Molly suspect he's far more affected than he would like to admit.

Finally, he takes Hamish. Gingerly, he takes a seat on the edge of Molly's hospital bed, keeping their son within her arm's reach. She watches as Sherlock carefully unwinds the swaddling blankets, pulls the little blue cap from Hamish's head, and takes a careful inventory of his son. Hamish seems singularly unimpressed with the perusal, and whines threateningly as he is exposed to the cool air.

"I'm glad he got your hair." Molly runs a fingertip over Hamish's head, smiling as he kicks and flails. His cheeks and nose and ears are turning red – absolutely a trait he's inherited from her – the color threatening to spread as he begins to work up to a proper cry. "I've always hated mine, too straight to do anything with, really."

"It seems I provided the dominant genetic pattern," Sherlock agrees vaguely, working at re-wrapping Hamish. "I researched childcare online. They provided diagrams on swaddling," he informs her, perhaps noting how shocked she is at his ability to perform the action.

He practiced, Molly realizes. Perhaps on a small cushion, maybe even a doll of some kind, he's practiced swaddling. What else has he taught himself? How to change a diaper, to burp, to rock, to give bottles? No doubt it was easy for him to keep an eye on her pregnancy through the tabloids, as they seem to enjoy writing about the scandalized, abandoned, and pregnant widow, Mrs. Molly Holmes.

She imagines him in some cheap flat in a foreign country, pinning up pictures of her swollen and glowing and having lunch with Mycroft or John, of him researching infants and parenting techniques and what to expect when babies become toddlers. It makes her heart hurt, and she can't hide her tears, because that is all she seems to do anymore, cry.

Tucking Hamish into the crook of one spindly arm, Sherlock rocks his son. Hamish quickly quiets, mouth working the air as his eyes begin to droop.

"Tell me?" he asks, and Molly does. She tells him all about Hamish, and her pregnancy, and Mycroft and John, Mrs. Hudson and Greg and her family; of how protective her mum is over Sherlock's memory, and how she's met his father and step-mother, even how uncomfortable she feels in his mother's wedding set. She gives him everything, even how much she misses him.

It takes a long time. Long enough that Hamish starts fussing again, and this time Molly thinks it's from hunger. A nurse comes in, takes their vitals, and leaves; Sherlock unties the shoulder of Molly's hospital gown, hands over Hamish, and watches with his hands folded passively in his lap as their son nurses. It hurts and yet it's a good pain, the kind that makes Molly's limbs feel weak and her heart joyous.

"I need to leave," he finally says, without a single indication that he has any plans to do so. "I shouldn't have come."

"I'm glad you did," Molly insists, and she is. She really, really is. "Do you know how much longer it'll be? Before you can come home, I mean?"

He shrugs, and it's the only answer Molly receives. Somehow, she isn't surprised.

"Molly..."

She waits, and waits, and waits for him to speak again. (She's always waiting on Sherlock; it's the one constant in her life.) He doesn't, he just _watches_ her, mouth pulled down and eyes dark, frustrated and puzzled. Finally he simply kisses her, and it's a bit too soft, too lingering to be anything other than an expression of love.

He keeps a hand curled over the back of Hamish's rooting head the whole time.

"Goodbye," he says, and are those tears? Molly hurts, and it's not from the labor. He leaves quickly, but the scent of cheap shaving cream and cigarettes remains, a reminder.

-X-

No one is more surprised than Molly that she has no complications from Hamish's birth. Precipitous labors are rare, but traumatizing to the body; a ruptured uterus is not uncommon for births of this nature, and are quite often fatal. It seems Molly has angels looking out for her, though, and she's really no worse than any other mum.

Brandon keeps her in the hospital for three days, though. Just to be on the safe side. It's possible Molly is more comfortable inside the walls of Bart's than another might be, given she's spent school days and years of professional work here, but it still chafes to be tied down. Someone took blurry snaps of Hamish on their mobile, leaking them to the press for a pretty sum, Molly is sure, and no one is more enraged than she is. Brandon rampages through the maternity ward like an avenging angel, but it's Mycroft who quietly promises her, "It will be handled."

Finally allowed freedom, Mycroft sends yet another car, and John helps her fasten Hamish's car seat in.

"Slow down," John keeps not shouting at the driver, white knuckled and thin lipped. His glare is fiery. "There's a newborn back – I said slow down!"

Molly's mum takes over Mrs. Hudson's guest room, as neither Molly nor John are willing to allow anyone else in Sherlock's room. (John can't bear to have it disturbed, but Molly can't imagine how terribly he will react upon his return to learn his supposed mother-in-law rifled through his things.) Stairs are torturous, but Molly manages; she introduces Hamish to his new home, promises to take him up to see his father's things later, feeds and changes him, and then they go to bed. He stays in the bassinet by Molly's bed; she can't quite bear to have him in an entirely different room. Not yet.

**-X-**

On her second night back on Baker Street, Molly wakes to the sound of a woman's voice.

"Hush now," she hears, the voice sultry and rich, like slow jazz and smoke and black leather. "Your mummy needs her rest, beautiful boy; I imagine you've worn her out." Hamish grumps; not crying, not yet, but he's obviously unhappy.

Molly bolts upright, discovers that this quick and violent motion makes her want to vomit from the pain (this is worse than the actual birth, she thinks, and how unfair is that?), and nearly knocks the bedside lamp off the table in her frantic attempts to turn on the light. She finds a woman sitting in gliding chair, dark hair beautifully coiffed and mouth painted red. She glows like alabaster, and Molly is faintly stunned.

She is more so when Molly realizes who the other woman is.

For the first time, she wishes she'd taken Mycroft up on his offer of in home guards.

"Put my son down," she orders softly, menacingly, "right **_now_**."

"Mama bear is awake," Irene Adler croons happily, sizing Molly up. "There there, precious, I have no intentions of hurting your son. Hamish, isn't it? Sherlock told me." Molly twitches, palms itching. She wants to grab Hamish and run, but she's afraid this woman (this woman that should be _dead_, but then again, she knows someone else that should be, as well) might hurt him before Molly can get to him. She's weak and tired and incredibly sore; Irene could easily get away from her, with Hamish, before Molly could make it across the room.

"Your brother-in-law did quite the job with your security; it took me _ages_ to disable it. As it is, we haven't got very long. That's a terrible shame, I would like to trade gossip about our Sherlock." _Our_ Sherlock? Molly barely believes she has a claim on the man, much less one shared with this painfully astonishing woman. "Congratulations on your son, Mrs. Holmes; his father is quite proud, you know. He's really quite sure that the combination of his genes with yours has created some sort of super genius."

"What do you want?" asks Molly, stiffly.

Before Irene has the chance to answer, Hamish grunts. Loudly. Face turning a mottled scarlet and purple, he shakes with effort.

"Um," questions Irene, panic suddenly brightening her eyes. "Is – is it supposed to do that?"

"He's...he's pooping," answers Molly plainly, feeling incredibly off kilter.

Irene turns green, and nearly breaks the sound barrier in an effort to cross the room and pass Hamish off to Molly. "Sometimes I think I might like to have one around, but then I am thankfully reminded of all the reasons I like to look at babies, and not keep them. They're so..." Waving her elegant hands, Irene searches for the proper phrasing. "They're not very hygienic, are they? Now cats, cats are nice. Easy to train to a litter box, and they only bother you when they want something to eat.

"Now then, Sherlock sent me to give you a message. This is the message –" Irene pulls a letter from a pocket, placing it on Molly's nightstand – "But I doubt he's going to say anything useful, as he seems to think you're made of candy floss and gumdrops. I have a rather higher opinion of you, Molly Hooper, and so I'm going to give you my own message.

"Sherlock is in trouble. He's in over his head, and that is saying something. I don't care what he's told before you now, which I'm assuming isn't much, but he needs help. Help that I, sadly, cannot provide." Irene pauses, brow furrowing. "He needs you, more than anything. But logistically, materially, he needs his brother. This is for the Ice Man." Irene pulls a second letter from her pocket, placing it on top of Molly's. "He's almost sent this letter, in one form or another, a dozen times...and that's only since I've been in contact with him. Get it to Mycroft. Sherlock's life depends on it."

If being cryptic were an Olympic event, Sherlock and Irene would be tied for the gold medal.

"One more thing, Molly, I've left a gift for you in the lounge. I thought you might like something that isn't baby related, even though I can see you are blissful in your maternal state. I hope we'll see each other again, and under happier circumstances."

Before Molly can react, Irene bends down, and kisses her. It's not chaste, not the least; she runs her tongue across Molly's lower lip, leaving the taste of mint and sin in her wake.

Irene Adler leaves as quickly as she came (and through a window, at that).

"I had such a normal life before your father," Molly finally tells Hamish, who is gearing up for a world class tantrum in light of his newly messed nappy. "No supposedly dead dominatrix snogging me after bringing me letters from my also supposedly dead, not actually, just illegally legal husband. If you hadn't come along, I'd have changed my name and moved to Brazil a long time ago."

Hamish receives a diaper change, is nursed, has another change, and spits up in Molly's hair. They fall asleep together in her bed, Hamish on Molly's chest and squeaking sweetly in his sleep. Molly dreams of red lips and the snap of Sherlock's riding crop, of the day an empty coffin was buried in a deep grave, and of losing Hamish in a grocery store stocked with nothing but stationary and fish.

If she were lucky, Molly muses when Hamish wakes again, she'd have some dues ex machina dreams to help her along in figuring things out. Instead she gets riddling fish and loses her baby in a bargain bin of note cards.

**-X-**

Molly finds a box in the lounge. It's wrapped in a silky blue ribbon, and it contains multiple sets of lingerie. One is scarlet, another inky black; this one is soft, fresh green, while another is polka dotted, and the last is nothing more than cleverly placed lace.

The note says, _for Sherlock's return, because I am a good friend. I'm always available if you find your needs lay elsewhere, lovely Molly._

"I think she fancies me," Molly muses out loud, startled, but intensely flattered.

**-X-**

_Molly,_

_I regret the ways in which I've treated you through the course of our relationship, both professional and otherwise. You have always been kind to me, Molly Hooper, especially when I did not deserve it. I have been cruel; unwittingly so, but the fact remains that I have hurt you more than I care to admit._

_If I were a different man, it would have been easier. I might have made you happy. You deserve that, Molly. You deserve happiness._

_I never entertained the idea of children. Still, discovering your pregnancy made me happy. Some genetic throwback to more primal times, I suppose, when impregnating a woman meant survival of our species. I kept clippings of you, from the papers. You were beautiful. I wish I had been there._

_Please tell Hamish about me. I find it troubling to think that he may very well never know his father. My own father is a disappointment, and I'm sure I would be, as well, so perhaps this is for the best. Dead fathers are heroes, always, and anyway, he will have John. John will be much better for him than I would have been, and you will be...wonderful. Teach him to be kind, Molly, as you are. Please._

_I have never believed in love. It is a chemical reaction, an illusion, a dream. Still. I think I understand how it is a motivator, now. Fatherhood, even remote as it is to me, has show me that perhaps I was wrong._

_If I could ever love anyone, it would be you. Not simply because of Hamish, but because you are Molly Hooper. I should have told you these things long ago, but as you know, I always miss something. Now will have to do. _

_You are beautiful, and brave, and quite a bit more intelligent than the other morons the world is full of. You certainly give me less migraines than they do. You remain kind despite how ugly the world is, and I envy your ability to feel, so passionately and openly, without reserve. It is like a drug, the way you care for me, and one I did not even realize I needed until it was not available to me._

_You have always counted. I have always needed you. That is a truth that neither time nor death will erase. _

_Live well, Molly, and know that to me, your worth surmounts any obtainable wealth. _

_Sherlock_

**-X-**

"Son of a bitch," says Molly, curling her hands into fists. "That...that stupid, ignorant, _son of a _**_bitch_**!" Despite her shout, Hamish continues to sleep, bottom in the air, squeaking on each exhale.

Sherlock didn't send her a letter of reassurance. The bastard all but sent her his last will and testament.

"Oh no you don't, you ass," she snarls spitefully, pouncing at her mobile. Mycroft is third on her speed dial. If Sherlock thinks he can solidly ignore her for years, incite her into faking his death, knock her up, and then go get himself killed after doing the equivalent of confessing his undying love (for Sherlock, that letter was practically poetic) in a bloody _letter_ sent by his bloody ex-girlfriend that _snogged her _(and gave her lingerie) well, he just has another think coming.

"Mycroft, I need to see you. Now. It's about Sherlock."

Mycroft is reduced to heavy breathing and shocked silence on the other side of the phone, which crackles with electronic discomfort.

"Hello," he finally says, and then, "I'll be there in a moment."

**-X-**

Much to Molly's surprise, Mycroft is a doting uncle, and far more hands on than she would have expected. He arrives at her flat only to pluck Hamish from his swing, obviously prideful as Hamish takes a tight grip on his pinky and stares at him with hazy interest.

"Tea?" Molly asks, though she's already fixing his cup.

"Yes, thank you."

A pause. Mycroft seems content to wait for Molly to build herself up to the big reveal, and she finds it doesn't take long. She's been waiting _months_ to let out, truth be told.

She tells him everything. How they faked Sherlock's death, their time in her flat (though without details that would no doubt only serve to make Mycroft terrifically uncomfortable), and her promises to keep his secrets. She explains how hard it was to keep her mouth shut after she discovered she was pregnant, how guilty she's been, how scared she was that if she revealed the truth to he or John, that it might somehow lead to Sherlock's actual death.

She tells Mycroft of Sherlock's hospital visit and his first meeting with Hamish, of Irene's nighttime call and the letters she left. Finally, she hands over Sherlock's missive to Mycroft, unopened, though she had been _sorely_ tempted.

Surprisingly, Molly doesn't cry. She doesn't have in her to shed tears, not now. She's too angry, and also relieved, after finally sharing the burden she kept for so long.

"There are international spies that can't keep secrets the way you can," Mycroft says after a few moments of silence, appearing surprisingly calm. He favors Molly with a friendly smile, perhaps even fond, gently jiggling Hamish. The baby is limp, though he jerks every once in a while, snapping his eyes open in an attempt to stay awake. (He is, Molly notes, failing miserably.) "My dear, I'm very glad you've confided in me...however, I already knew most of this."

Molly squawks. It's a undignified noises, but well, there's no other word for it. She then proceeds to gape, feeling a bit faint.

"I'm sorry," she says faintly, "but what?"

"John and I have been on Sherlock's trail for months, now. We suspected that he used you to help him fake his death, but honestly, we had no way to prove it. We never told you, simply because we feared that if you hadn't helped him, the shock of it might have done you or Hamish some harm." Mycroft spares his nephew a soft glance, and Molly distantly notes that he's fallen asleep, snoring squeakily once again.

"Then...then you know that he needs your help?"

"I've been helping him for quite some time," Mycroft admits, "though he may not have realized it. He's my brother, Molly. There is nothing I wouldn't do for him."

"Oh," she says, "well then. That's...good."

Mycroft stays for dinner, and really, it's all a bit surreal.

-X-

In the way of traumatic events, everything happens very quickly.

Molly is pushing Hamish's pram down the street, enjoying a walk on a warm, sunny summer day. She's meeting Diana for lunch, and then they're going shopping for a Christening gown for Hamish. She's cheerful in a way she hasn't been in a long, long time; she has her son, Mycroft is doing his best to ensure that his idiot brother will remain alive, and there's a wonderful chance that when it's all over, she might end up in an actual, adult, functioning relationship with Sherlock Holmes.

And they say dreams don't come true. (They just come via faked suicides and unplanned pregnancies, it seems.)

The very next moment, while Molly is passing a small, dark alley, there is a pain in her neck. The world ripples sickeningly, Molly wavers and nearly falls. Someone catches her before she can hit the ground, someone big and incredibly strong.

A man in a dark suit steps forward.

"I love babies," Jim from IT – _Moriarty_ – tells her, grinning like a mad fox. "They taste a bit like chicken, don't they, Seb?"

Before Molly can scream, the world goes dark. Everything is too heavy to move, including her tongue. Faintly she hears laughter, mad as Bedlam, like nails on a chalk board, and, "Some people just don't know how to take a joke, do they?"

Hamish begins to cry.


	4. Chapter 4

**Final Editing: 06/17/13**

**Recycled A/N: **Broomy updated without more than a month in between chapters? Obviously the world is ending, go kiss your loved ones. Thank you to MizJoely for beta-ing, and if you get more than one update, know that I'm only updating previous chapters so they are beta-ed versions.

I know this is cheesy and a bit lame, but bear with me; _I'm_ cheesy and lame. I want to dedicate this chapter Nocturnias (sherlolly on tumblr, everyone should follow her): not only did she finish _Love Stories and Tournaments of Lies_ (I'm still catching up, NO ONE SPOIL THE ENDING FOR ME OR I'LL CRY), she's also the lovely lady that started the SAMFAs. The Sherlolly gang as a whole owes this flawless lady a debt of gratitude and while moderately acceptable fanfiction isn't much, I think it may be a step in the right direction.

Don't know what the SAMFAs are? Sherlock and Molly Fanfiction Awards! Go to wwwdotsherlollydotcom; it's a great place, and I spend too much time there. (Okay, I'm shutting up now.)

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

Molly wakes slowly. Her mind is thick and sluggish, and her body doesn't seem to want to obey her commands. She doesn't know where she is or what's happened, but she remembers Moriarty's slick smile and Hamish's unhappy wails. She has only one thought, and it is this: _find Hamish_.

She knows, dimly, that she has been kidnapped. She realizes that her life is in danger. But these are faint acknowledgments, secondary to the frantic pulse that heats her blood and works hard to fight away the haze of the drugs.

Far away, she hears the cry of a newborn. More importantly, it is one that has lodged itself inside her heart and memory; it is the sound of her son, angry and hungry and probably wet, howling his discontent with all the force he can muster. Though her head lolls, Molly manages to roll it up, to open her eyes and force herself to focus.

Drugged and groggy she may be, but sheer will and stubbornness go a long way in snapping the scene she is an unwilling part of into place.

Molly is tied to a chair. Her shirt has been sliced open with a sharp blade. Instead of it being removed, it's been pushed to the side, lewdly showcasing her soft stomach and her functional nursing bra, with its pale blue flowers and hints of lace. It scares her, makes her insides clench with fear and sickness.

The room used to keep her captive is pretty and impossibly rich. Gilt and brocade and silk are everywhere she looks; old, grand, and expensive looking art adorns the walls. Sitting a table, drinking tea from a delicate china cup, is a man. He's plain looking, average; brown hair, blue eyes, unremarkable features and build. Except, Molly notes, there is something his gaze, some...some reptilian emptiness.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Holmes," he says, while the distant cries of her son grow louder. "I was just about to wake you. I do believe your son is hungry."

Bile rises in the back of her throat, acid and stinging, forcing Molly to swallow hard. She's beyond terrified.

A door across this large, lavish room opens, and Hamish's cries become crystal clear. Moriarty steps inside, Hamish against his shoulder. He has a burp rag and a ring of oversized, colorful plastic keys.

"Guess who's awake!" he trills happily, turning Hamish around to face Molly. She struggles against her bonds, helpless and enraged and so fucking horrified she thinks her heart may explode. "Hello, Molls! It's been _ages_, hasn't it? We're going to catch up very soon, but first things first, I do believe _someone_ is hungry!"

The unknown man stands, wiping crumbs from the corners of his mouth before he takes up a knife left menacingly on the table. "I'll let your arms free so you can feed the kid," he says, smiling in such a friendly way that he could be holding a door open or returning a dropped purse. "But if you try anything, I'll slit your fucking throat. Okay, Mrs. Holmes?"

Molly nods jerkily. The cold knife blade is slid between her wrist and the tough nylon rope holding her down. One sharp jerk, a tearing noise, and her arm is free. She immediately balls her fist, gasping as it begins to awaken, aching and burning painfully. The same treatment is given to her other arm, leaving her to flex her wrists and arms until feeling returns.

She's still tied to the chair at her stomach and hips and thighs, but she's grateful for even this amount of freedom. Holding out her arms, she silently demands her son. Moriarty seems positively pleased to obey, bounding forward like an excited child. He hands Hamish over, and having his familiar, darling weight in her arms once again leaves Molly breathless and nearly faint with gratefulness.

"I've always liked kids," Moriarty says, twirling away in search of a chair. He makes a show of dragging it back to Molly, placing it so closely in front of her that when he sits, their knees are nearly touching. "Malleable, children are. Well go on, love, feed him."

The endearment forces Molly to flinch.

"A blanket," she somehow manages to say. "Please."

The unknown man makes as though he is going to retrieve one, but Moriarty waves him off. His eyes are dark, amused, and utterly chilling. "Oh no," Moriarty chides, the way he bares his teeth shark-like and sickening. "A natural act, isn't it? Go ahead. No shame."

Hamish cries. Molly fears what might happen if she disobeys, what repercussions may fall on her son, and so she obeys. It takes strength beyond measure to keep from weeping; this act, one of love and joy and devotion, one that means so _much_, it is being degraded under the eyes of a madman. He watches her as she blinks away tears and sets her jaw in a firm line, as she unhooks the flap of her nursing bra and settles Hamish in place.

She wants to claw out Moriarty's eyes, pull out his devious tongue, shred his face to ribbons so he'll never smile again. Instead, knowing her current limitations, she simply hugs her son close and does her best to convey her hatred through her eyes.

"Good," Moriarty whispers, tongue touching the corner of his mouth. "Lovely. I like this look on you, Molly. It suits you almost as well as motherhood." He leans forward, reaching out; fingertips brush against Molly's cheek, his eyes burning. She jerks her head back, practically hissing at how unwanted the touch is.

Her reaction only pleases him. Moriarty smiles, drops his hand down to finger Hamish's soft curls. "Look at us," he croons, "practically a happy little family."

"What kind of fantasies are you having, if the missus is tied up to breastfeed?" the unknown man asks, once again seated at his table.

"Only the good kind, Seb, I assure you." Moriarty's smile is slow and dark, and it leaves Molly sick, with the taste of fear on the back of her tongue.

-X-

"Why?" she asks, Hamish on her shoulder in the process of being burped.

"Oh, that's a rather expansive question, don't you think? Why are we here, why were we born, why hasn't DiCaprio won an Oscar? You're going to have to pick one." Folding his hands in his lap, Moriarty smiles, flippant and mocking.

"Why take us? We're useless to you."

"Oh, my," sighs Jim, fluttering hand heading for his heart. "Poor sweet Molly, it's such a _shame_ you didn't have eyes on Sherlock all these long months. Do you know he cried? Just yesterday. He sat in his nasty little hovel, oh, and he _wept_! For you, my dear, isn't that nice to know? You and the boy, of course. If I'd known how easily he would break, in the end...well, you would have been crowned queen instead of simply playing a pawn.

"I am going to break him," he says, as casually and confidently as another might state that man has walked on the moon, that the Earth is round. "I thought it would take ages, really, and many more deaths. Now it will only take one; one death, and the game will end. On to bigger and better things!"

It will do no good to beg, Molly knows this. Still, she can't help it. If there is a chance, no matter how remote, how slim... "Not Hamish," she asks quietly, feeling as though her soul is being carved from her very chest. "Please, _please_, not Hamish."

"No," the madman soothes, reaching out to cup Hamish's feet. "Not the baby. I thought, perhaps, it would be needed, but I have a far greater plan. Would you like to hear it?"

"Jim," says Seb, the man at the table, who is in the process of opening a novel. He isn't alarmed, no, but faintly irritated. "She'll find out soon enough."

"I want her to know." Gone is the faint laughter, the high, mad tone. What is left is emotionless, empty. It's like looking into the eyes of a shark and seeing nothing, _nothing_ but the instinct to kill and feast. "I want her to understand that there is no Prince Charming in this story. No happy endings.

"Sherlock dies. Just him. And you're going to watch, Molly, because I want _no doubt_ that he will never come to save you. Not now, not tomorrow, not in five years after you've given up all hope. I am going to be gracious, though; I'm going to cut out his heart, and give it to you. I'll even let you keep it. It's what you've wanted all this time, isn't it?" He leans forward, seemingly intent on catching every minute reaction he pulls from Molly; from her flinch backwards to the soft sound of horror she can't push down.

"He took something precious away from me. But I'll still win; before he dies, he'll know that his son will be _mine_." That smile again, twisted and mad, as brilliant and blinding as an eclipse; it makes Molly's eyes water. "You're going to stay with me, and so is Hamish. Can't you imagine? Sherlock Holmes' son, modeled after myself? Oh, my dear, the things I will show him. He will be _brilliant_."

A scream builds in Molly's chest. Ruthlessly she swallows it, locks it away. She can't fall apart, she can't, not now. Not yet. (Maybe not ever.)

"What –" Molly's voice cracks, and she has to take a breath before she can speak levelly once more. "What did he take? Something precious, you said."

"Me," Moriarty whispers, "he took me." It's like watching a flower rot and decay in a matter of seconds; Moriarty shrinks in on himself, mouth limp and wet, hands and eyes twitching and jerking violently. Seb, whoever he actually is, shoves away from the table to stride towards his...partner? Boss?

Molly can only make out the suggestion of words in the whispers the other man gives Moriarty, but whatever he says works, although not completely. Moriarty is still obviously unwell, _painfully_ rattled; but he seems to pull himself together, gathering the shards of his sanity to build himself back up.

"You?" she asks dryly, praying she can crack him right in half. She has to _try_, doesn't she? "How did he take you? Jim," she softens her voice, until it's a caress of a question, like a hand skating warmly over cold flesh. "What happened to you?"

"I died," Moriarty answers, voice gone hollow and ringing. "I put a gun in my mouth and died on the rooftop."

"Shut up!" the other man orders, raising as hand as if to strike her. She curls protectively around her son, attempting to keep him unharmed.

"Do not, Moran," Moriarty orders, and the man stumbles backwards when Jim shoves him, hard. "Not this one. We need her."

"Cows make milk," Moran snarls, "the fuck do we need her, for?"

"I'm studying her. She was clever enough to help Sherlock fool me, at least for a while. She interested _him_ enough to warrant the shedding of his celibacy, why? What's so special about _you_, _Dr._ Hooper? Oh, no, sorry – _Mrs. Holmes_ now, isn't it?" A sneer, featuring wet white teeth, small and sharp. "I missed something. Something important...but what? I need to know."

"Love," says Molly, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue. "He might not have known it, and he might not call it love, but that's what you missed."

"And look where it's got you, the 'love' of Sherlock Holmes." Gesturing broadly at more than simply the room around them, Moriarty jumps to his feet, viciously kicking the chair he sat in behind him. The legs splinter, Hamish grumps fitfully at the noise, and Molly winces.

"I-I still don't understand," she presses, voice small and scared, belying the fact that her mind is racing. There are pieces here she doesn't have, puzzle pieces, and so the picture is unfinished. But the more she digs, scraping away the paint meant to cover blemishes, she can see that Moriarty is fragile, cracking and breaking apart. He was mad before, a supernova of violence and sheer, unflinching insanity.

Now he is a black hole, empty, sucking in all the life around him, desperate to fill his void. Why? How? If Molly can discover this, can guide him into digging deeper, she may be able to peel away his protective shell. When Sherlock comes – and he _will_, this Molly knows – Moriarty may be so weakened by this new lunacy, this unraveling of his mind that does not so much diminish his brilliance but _overshadows_ it, well...

Sherlock is brilliant, even more so than this man. He will find some way to use it in his favor, of this Molly is sure.

"You said you killed yourself, at Bart's. But how are you alive?"

"I died," Moriarty answers, and suddenly his eyes are bleeding sorrow. He reaches out, hand trembling as he traces a finger over Molly's collarbones, moves it down to touch cup one swollen breast. Her nursing bra is damp; by now she should have pumped the excess milk. "I kept on living, though, even after I died."

"One more word, and I'm gagging you," Moran threatens harshly, thrusting a finger at Molly.

"No, Seb. I want to tell her." Those dark, dark eyes look up and over, meeting his subordinate's. "It's the only way to remember, and sometimes I forget. We're keeping her. So she can remind me, when you aren't here."

Moran snarls, but turns away. He stalks not only across the room, but out of it, muttering about 'mouthy fucking women.'

Moriarty kneels, resting his hand on Molly's knee. He looks intently at Hamish, eyes narrowing as he leans close. "Do you love it?" he asks mildly, suddenly much calmer.

"Yes, I love him. Of course I do."

"I might," he says, tone gone high and wavering, almost as though he's singing his words. "I lost myself, so it's only fair I get something back. An eye for an eye.

"I died, Molly Hooper. I died, and I kept on living, and it's only fair. It's only fair."

-X-

Once there was a woman. She was not simply clever, or brilliant, or quick witted; she was a proper genius. She was wealthy, a society child who had no need to work or study, to be anything other than beautiful and well-kept. This was boring, so she rented her cunt for money, ensnaring the ordinary humans for amusement. The ones she liked, she played with; the ones she didn't like were dismissed; the ones she loved never, never left again.

She smelled of gardenias, heady and strong, and her hands were always soft, though sturdy.

It wasn't her first pregnancy, but this one she kept. Why? Boredom? Perhaps a desire to attempt nurturing something; she did like gardening, are children different than roots and blooms? A few people suggested it was because her father insisted on it; was it his? Was he aching for the pitter-patter of little feet in his home, once more? Or did he simply like the idea of his line continuing another generation?

The why's don't matter. Not really.

She gave birth quietly, in a small, village clinic. It was early, too early, but one screaming, slick, red-faced human slid into the capable hands of the village doctor. Minutes later, a second followed, as angry as his brother.

Two were a novelty. A spare, she thought, in case one broke.

An experiment, she decided later on. Nature versus nurture.

She kept them in a country estate, an old summer cottage with a great iron stove in the kitchen. They were allowed outside together, but only in the garden; they sneaked out, though, into the woods. Miss worried for them (Miss kept them, as the Mother was often gone), but there was no need.

They only left the estate one at a time. "I'm Jim," they both said, in knee pants and high socks, shoes so shined they could see their reflection.

Everyone had another, they believed. One stayed home, the other went out. The next time, the same.

Me, my, mine, I; Jim, Jimmy, James. It was all they knew. There was no separation of self, and they wanted none. Sometimes Mother would say, "Come stand here," and pinch Jim's arm until he bruised, watching Jim across the room for hints of pain, of discomfort, of tears.

He grew clever and quick, and eventually he was more brilliant than Mother. They put her in the big iron stove one day, when they had grown big, lean, and strong; they cooked Mother and made her into a pie, and Miss cried. Why? Mother would understand – it was an experiment, after all.

They left home. Grandfather was nothing more than a mausoleum now, and Miss helped make Mother into pies to hide her, so they were rich. And bored. No wonder Mother kept Jim; the world was so...so _dull_.

They built an empire, and it was easy. (Everything was easy for Jim.) They heard stories about the smartest man in the world, and followed the words like a trail of breadcrumbs, all the way to Sherlock Holmes. He took drugs and talked too fast, pierced his arms and legs with needles to find a solid high, and made the new pathologist cry daily.

He got clean, and became brighter. He burned like the sun, and Jim thought, "He's like me. He's just like me."

So he began to play the game. It took a long time to set up, but the best games do. Dominoes all in a row, waiting to be knocked down, a pretty pattern of death and destruction to show how _not_ ordinary they are, the three of them. Jim and Sherlock, Sherlock and Jim.

There had always been halves; now there were wholes.

They took turns whispering sweet nothings to the pathologist. She was ordinary, _boring_. But she brought him close, and anyway, she kissed like a wild fire. In the end (he thought) she didn't matter. (Just another piece he missed.) (But how? _How_?)

On the rooftop of St. Bartholomew's, they play the game. But Sherlock is their match, absolutely, truly, and even though they _are_ a 'they', and Sherlock is only '_I'_, he beats them. He lives, Jim dies.

Jim becomes I. His 'they' is on the rooftop, in a puddle of brain and blood and skull. Was it worth it? It might have been, for a little while, but then the papers say, _Fraud Genius' Pregnant Widow_, with pictures of Molly Hooper with a slightly brighter-eyed John Watson.

And then the empire begins to crumble, from the roots up. And so Jim knows, he knows so well; again he follows the breadcrumbs, and he finds Sherlock Holmes.

Never a 'they', only an 'I', and somehow _he still wins_.

It isn't fair. It isn't _right_. Jim isn't Jim without Jim, does the universe realize that? He has to do something, he has to fix it.

His plan comes like lightning touching ground; the 'mourning widow' will have a baby, and the baby will become Jim's. He'll be a 'they' again, and 'I' will be whole once more. It won't be the same, no, but Sherlock will _finally lose_, will finally know the loss, and that means Jim wins.

"Remember, Jimmy," Mother used to say on her visits, "the only thing that matters is winning, no matter what game you're playing."

Now he waits, fingering the dark curls of Sherlock Holmes' son, wondering at the lessons he can pass on.

"I died," he ends the story of his life, smiling up at Molly Hooper (but why? _Why_ her? He still doesn't understand. Love? Is that really a valid reason, an excuse? He cannot comprehend no matter how he tries, and it makes his head ache, a sharp throb, like a knife at the base of his neck). "But he'll die, too, and I get the two of you. I'll call him Jim," he tells Molly, smile suddenly beatific, doting, a father setting on eyes on his son for the first time. "Much better than Hamish. Jim! Jimmy! Look at Daddy!"

Little Jim grunts, hazy eyes narrowed and unhappy. Jim laughs, and doesn't stop for a long, long time.

-X-

Molly doesn't notice when Sherlock arrives, not at first. She's got her eyes closed and head down, taking deep breaths of Hamish's scent, still clean and so inescapably innocent that it nearly hurts.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asks, voice pitched low and words hurried. She looks up, eyes gone wide and tear-filled as he rushes forward. He's wearing his Belstaff like it's armor, even though it's too hot and it sags wrongly now, given how much weight he's lost. He ends up crouched down in front of her, palming Hamish's head with one hand, the other curling around Molly's cheek.

"They've stepped out," she whispers, pushing their son towards him. "Take Hamish, go, get out. Take him, Sherlock."

"We're leaving together," he insists, smoothing his thumb across her chin. "The three of us."

"Just take him." Voice thick, Molly pleads. She wants to believe him, that they _will_ all leave together, but she can't take the risk. She _can't_. She'd rather die, she _will_ die, before Hamish grows up to be a mad little pawn in Moriarty's game. "Please, for the love of God, get him out."

"I'd ask you to be brave," Sherlock whispers, with eyes that beg for understanding, "but I know I don't need to."

A click and a flash; Molly winces, not knowing what it is, at first. Sherlock's mouth tips into a scowl, and though he lingers a spare moment in front of her, seemingly unwilling to break contact with Molly and their child, he finally stands. Folding his hands behind his back as he turns, Molly cranes her neck to follow his gaze.

Moriarty (or rather, the only living one, Molly qualifies) is beaming at them, cell phone out. "One for the album!" Practically vibrating with excitement, he twirls the phone around to display the picture. "Very touching, Sherlock. You know, if you'd told me a year ago that you would fuck Dr. Hooper _and_ become a daddy, I'd have called you a liar."

A tightening of his jaw is the only reaction Sherlock gives. "You've won. Isn't that what you've wanted this whole time? To beat me? Congratulations, we have both played all our cards, and I have lost. Spectacularly."

"Flattery _will_ get you everywhere," Moriarty giggles, bounding closer. "But there's no need for it. Go on, Molls, tell him. She's going to live, and the kid, too. I want you to know that. Little Jim there is going to call me 'Daddy' one day, and when he takes over the family business, I'll be in hell, knowing I've done everything I was meant to do. Sherlock Holmes' son, heir of the consulting criminal. Neat, isn't it?"

"Isn't it _just_," answers Sherlock, coldly.

"I warned you, Sherlock. I said I'd burn the heart out of you – and here I am, ready to do that. Your son: mine. Your woman: well, so long as she doesn't do anything stupid, she'll live. The world: convinced that you are a fraud." Spreading his arms, Moriarty beams, eyes twinkling. "How could this have ended any better for me?"

"Such a pity your other half had to blow the back of his head off to achieve it. Oh yes, I learned about him."

Moriarty grows cold, eyes resembling dying stars, bleak and cold. "Clever. Very clever. Keep it up, Sherlock, and poor Mrs. Holmes won't live very long at all. My interest in her seems to be fleeing every time you open your mouth."

A long beat of silence. And then, quite out of nowhere, somewhere in the building below them, there is the sound of gunfire.

"Oh my," Sherlock breathes, lifting one eyebrow. "Sebastian Moran against MI-5. Who do you think will win?"

Bafflement writes itself across Moriarty's features, quickly followed by a black rage. "No. _No_. This isn't how the game is played, Sherlock! _You don't win if you play like them_!"

"It's not about being cleverer than you, not anymore."

"_Her_," spits Moriarty, gesturing sharply towards Molly. "It's her, isn't it? She's made you _soft_, her and that brat."

Hamish begins to cry, and the gunfire draws closer.

"They live," answers Sherlock, "I do win."

It all happens so quickly. Footsteps pounding and then the door crashing in; shouting, barked orders, and Hamish wailing, fat tears rolling down his hot, red cheeks while Molly curls around him protectively; Moriarty drawing the gun, always his last stand-by, always. This time it isn't his bullet that cracks through his skull. Instead it cuts through the air, too quick and close to dodge.

Blood splatters, and Sherlock falls.

-X-

"Mrs. Holmes?" Awakened from her light doze, Molly all but topples from her chair. She had been leaning against John, hunched awkwardly in the sticky plastic of the waiting room chair. The surgeon that comes out isn't one Molly knows.

"Me. Yes, that's me. How is he?" She's on her feet and darting to the surgeon before she's fully awake. John, of course, is right on her heels, with Mycroft trailing behind.

"Mr. Holmes is in recovery. I'm going to be honest, Mrs. Holmes; if he hadn't received medical attention when on the spot, he wouldn't have made it to the hospital alive. As it is, we removed the bullet, repaired his subclavian artery, and removed the bone chips from around his clavicle." Molly sags backwards, dully grateful that John is there to catch her.

Even by the time Molly is taken to him, Sherlock isn't awake. She goes to his chart, and sits down with it. She takes in every gruesome, horrifying detail of his condition, of exactly how close she came to losing him...how lucky she is to have him in this bed, breathing and alive.

Sherlock comes to with a low, raspy groan. It takes him a moment to focus after his eyes open, Molly can see it; still, she's leaning forward in the chair she's pulled beside his bed, taking one of his hands between both of her own. She's careful not to jostle his IV.

"Sherlock?" she calls, swallowing hard as his eyes roll, unfocused, before slipping towards her. "Sherlock, it's Molly."

"Obviously," he rasps, flinching. A pause, a breath, and then – "Were you hurt?"

It takes a force of will to keep from sobbing at this question. "No, I'm fine. Not a scratch."

"Hamish?" he persists, looking very much as though he may attempt to break free of his hospital bed if her answer isn't one he likes.

"Perfect. At home with Mrs. Hudson, safe and sound. Thanks to you." He squeezes her hand, almost smiling before his eyes close.

"What happened?" he asks, and Molly easily see that he isn't going to be coherent or conscious for much longer.

"Moriarty's gun went off when he was shot, you were hit. You had surgery, but you're fine now. You'll be home in no time."

"Of course," he answers, slurring his words heavily. His eyes are closed, and his head is beginning to loll. "I'll go now. I'm fine. We're all fine."

"We're all fine," Molly repeats, leaning forward to kiss his forehead. "You sleep, though. You need rest."

Sherlock tries valiantly to follow the sound of her voice, mouth landing somewhere between her mouth and her nose in a sloppy, sweet kiss. He never opens his eyes. "I was wrong, Molly. I can. Do you understand? I can love."

"I know," she assures him, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. A tear drops from her chin to dampen his pillow, and Molly hastily wipes the others away before they can fall. "I always knew that, even when you didn't."

"You can see me," he murmurs, "and that's good. Tell John we need milk."

A shocked laugh escapes Molly's mouth. "Sure, Sherlock. Whatever you say."

He tumbles back into unconsciousness, and Molly lowers her head to the bed beside his shoulder, crying quietly, without any great sobs or howls. She's thankful and relieved, burning off fear and terror, so grateful it actually leaves her breathless and dizzy.

Sherlock mutters formulas in his medicated sleep, and Molly thinks it's one of the most beautiful sounds she's ever heard.


	5. Chapter 5

**Final Editing: 06/17/13**

**Recycled A/N:** Lord, where do I start. All my love, as always and forever, to MizJoely, who holds my hands and urges me on even when I threaten to delete everything and start over. She's a miracle worker, y'all. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, sent me messages, howled at me on tumblr about the things I put our Sherlock and Molly through. I love you guys so much, you don't even know.

Officially I can announce that Links has won Best Romance, Rated M in the SAMFAs. Everyone go to wwwdotsherlollydotcom or tumblr and check out the sherlolly tag to see all the other awesome winners. I can also say this is the last chapter of Links, and I've cried over ending this story like my dog was dying. Kind of pathetic. But the sequel is forthcoming, after I tie up my other ongoing Sherlolly stories.

**Addition: **Thank you everyone for all the time spent reading, and certainly for every single comment and review left. And mucho thanks to whomever nominated Links, you guys don't even know what it means to me. Thank you all so much, I really _do_ appreciate it.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

Molly hovers in the doorway of Sherlock's bedroom, unsure. He's on the bed and under the soft duvet, propped against a stack of pillows and the headboard. Hamish rests on Molly's shoulder, and though he has yet to cry, she can tell from his restless movements and flailing feet he's hungry and gearing up to a tantrum.

"Molly? Sherlock questions, head rolling to peer at her. He's weaker than he would like to admit, and Molly can see it plain as day; dark circles ring his eyes, and as he's lost so much weight Molly's surprised his bones don't cut through thin white skin.

What's terrifying is that he looks a little better each day, and _this_ is Sherlock after gaining five pounds and spending nearly two weeks in the hospital.

"I was just checking on you," she finally answers, giving Sherlock a faint, shy smile. "I um – I have to go feed Hamish."

"Is there some reason you can't do it here?" His eyebrows crowd his hairline before Sherlock begins shifting further over on the mattress, making room for her.

Molly doesn't miss his wince of pain. "Sherlock, no. You're still hurting." And not taking his pain medication as he should. It's non-narcotic, but Molly could see the worry in him whenever the nurses brought his dose in, most especially when John returned from the chemists with his filled prescriptions after his release from hospital. "You didn't take your pills, did you? Please, Sherlock, I know you don't like it, but you're in pain."

"I am fine," he says, in a thin, stubborn strain. He holds out one arm, wiggling his fingers. "Come on, Molly. I'll follow you downstairs if you don't come to bed with me now."

It's strange, sitting in Sherlock's bed, his arm around her as she soothes Hamish before nursing him. Surreal. They're like any other couple, still feeling each other out and in awe of their new child. She never imagined that Sherlock would be demonstrative, even with his own child, but in the two weeks since his return, he's been loath to allow Hamish out of his sight. When Molly brings the newborn to visit his father, Sherlock lights up, eager to hold their son.

"I'm glad you chose to breast feed," Sherlock says after a time, moments before his chin drops onto Molly's shoulder. He stares intently down at Hamish, who nurses greedily. "Not just for Hamish's benefit. It lowers the risk of postpartum depression. I...worried for you."

"I've been surprisingly well," Molly admits, swallowing back a surge of emotion she simply can't _handle_ right at this moment as Sherlock folds his other arm across his stomach, toying with Hamish's feet and toes. "Of course, I was on antidepressants even before I gave birth. Brandon worried, and I agreed it would be a wise choice to make."

"Hmm." His response is noncommittal, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Honestly, Molly wonders if he even really heard her; he's so enthralled in measuring the length of Hamish's feet against his palm that she wonders if he even knows she's quit speaking.

Molly switches breasts – Hamish is beginning to eat more and more – humming idly under her breath while he finishes.

It is Sherlock who burps him, who changes his diaper, face distorted in concentration as he works. It nearly makes Molly's heart explode from all the love she holds for them both.

They lie in bed together for over an hour, Hamish against Sherlock's bare chest, sleeping contentedly. Sherlock remains in pain, yes, Molly can see it in the tightness around his eyes, but the physical pain is secondary to his happiness. And here, right now in this very moment, Molly sees him as happy as she ever has before.

"As you can see, I had John move his bassinet in here."

Molly takes the hint, and soon enough Hamish is nestled in the bassinet at the foot of the bed, on his stomach with his knees tucked to his chest and his bottom in the air. She pulls a blanket over him, rubs a hand along his back before going back to Sherlock's bed.

He curls around her as completely as he can, until Molly is enveloped by long arms and legs, his face tucked against the back of her neck. One hand splays across her stomach, soft and still oh-so-tender to the touch.

"Molly," he says, and then nothing. Just his breathing, which becomes quick and ragged, and then strained as tears slip through the covering of Molly's thick hair to wet her neck. She doesn't know what to do, what to say; in this, she is utterly and entirely out of her depth. Sherlock has always been so – so _strong_. So separate from his emotions, at least the ones he considers weak.

But here he is, crying into her hair, against her skin, clinging to her as though he's afraid she may disappear. It breaks her heart, shatters it into too many pieces to find and put back together. So she clings to his hands, presses close and simply allows him the comfort of her presence, of knowing she is with him.

-X-

Sherlock takes the painkillers with lukewarm water, gritting his teeth against the soreness in his chest after he swallows. He's been avoiding them, but it's so bad now that he can't even hold Hamish. As much as he detests how they slow his mind, he needs them to recover properly.

How weak he's grown in his time away. There seemed so little point in eating or sleeping or resting at all, not when he had so much to do before he could return home. Not when Molly was waiting, waiting with their son.

"Mrs. Hudson is watching Hamish for me." Molly has her hands folded in front of her, and she's chewing on her lip. She's nervous. Mummy's wedding set sits on her left hand, and she twists it anxiously, around and around. "I think we...we need to talk. Now. Before things go any further."

_Ah_.

Nodding tersely, Sherlock watches Molly as she takes a seat on the coffee table. Obviously it is so they can be face-to-face, indicating her desire for honesty. Her body language pulls her towards him, and though she is nervous, she doesn't pull away or seem blocked off.

"We aren't married. I know Mycroft mocked up papers and gave me your mother's rings, but we – we aren't. And you didn't even have a say in it. And I know you never planned on, um, a family. So I – I wanted you to know that we don't have to, um, pretend to be married. We can have a divorce or an annulment, and still be...whatever...whatever we are. Friends. Hamish's parents. More, if you want. Whatever you're able and willing to be."

She's unhappy, Sherlock can read it in her eyes and the way her shoulders hunch. She doesn't want to say these things, he can see it in her lowered chin and dark eyes. _Is this love?_ Sherlock wonders, and thinks it must be. Giving someone a way out, even when it isn't what _you_ want.

Molly is so...so selfless. He isn't. He never has been. Sherlock Holmes, greedy and cruel and vain, that's him. He thinks about life before he faked his death, before Molly and running and Hamish. (A wonder, a _miracle_, is Hamish to Sherlock. He hopes, fervently, that Hamish will be the best of them both. His father's mind, his mother's heart, all of their strengths and none of their faults.)

"What do _you_ want?" Sherlock finds himself asking, and wishing he had done this for her years ago. Before Moriarty. Even before John. Though if it hadn't been for his faithful Dr. Watson, Sherlock would not be the man he is today – and certainly still too terrified to admit the emotions and lusts stirred by his sweet little pathologist.

"I – I'm sorry? What?"

Sherlock sighs. "What do you want, Molly? A divorce? You will be provided for. You and Hamish, if it's what you choose." He ignores the tightening in his chest and stomach. _Not this_, he wants to shout, _please not this. You can't_. He has no idea how to be a husband, a father. But he wants to learn. He wants to discover all of Molly's secrets, and see each moment of his son's life. To watch him grow, to teach him how to use his mind to his fullest abilities.

But if Molly wants the chance to move on, to find someone _normal_...well, just this once, Sherlock can do something for _her_.

"No. No, that's...it's not what I want. You know I love you." Molly pauses, brow furrowing and nose wrinkling as she attempts to find words. "I just...we...it's so quick, isn't it? Us. This. And you were in a...a very desperate place. Then you were gone, and I had to lie to everyone, _and_ I was pregnant. That isn't a good foundation for a marriage, especially not one we both know is fake."

"What _is_ the foundation for a marriage, then?" he asks, tone sharp and biting. He flutters a hand towards the front windows, despite the pain it causes in his chest, drawing Molly's attention to the world beyond curtains and glass. "For those people? I know you, Molly Hooper. You wouldn't be happy with any of those – those _morons_ out there. And besides, you know me better than anyone else. You see me, even when no one else can. I think we've got much more going for us than most people. Unless of course you dream of boredom, bad sex, and a divorce later in life. In which case, feel free to find your own path to _happiness_."

"Sherlock, I'm not – I'm not saying I'm going to _leave_. Not if you don't want me to. And I certainly won't take Hamish from you. All I...all I'm trying to..." A sound of frustration crawls out of Molly's throat, and her hands ball into fists, which she shakes at him. "Sometimes I just – I just want to _hit_ you, Sherlock! I'm trying to let you off the hook, here! Guilt free!"

The painkillers are beginning to kick in. Sherlock can feel them; the pain lessening, his mind growing dull along the edges, even while his tongue becomes looser. "Have you ever considered, for even a _moment_, that I don't want 'off the hook'? That perhaps I am quite pleased to be home, to have both you and Hamish here? Very recently I thought the both of you were going to die, and I would live on; or that I would die, and you would go on without me, and I would never see – anything. Of Hamish. Of you. I found the thought of either disturbing and painful. So please tell me, Molly, what in any part of what I've done over the past year, makes you think I want anything other than you and our son?"

Molly gapes. Outright. Mouth hanging open, eyes round, hands loose and trembling.

"Sherlock, until...until you jumped...you barely even acknowledged the fact I was _alive_. And now you...you want...?"

"I always wanted," he admits, his tone harsh. He looks up and away, to the bison skull hanging over his desk, headphones in place. "I simply didn't know how much. I certainly didn't want to admit it."

"You – but – all those times you deduced my dates? My boyfriends?"

"They _were_ unacceptable," Sherlock grumbles, sinking further down on the sofa.

"You were _jealous_." Molly speaks in a tone of voice that suggests she has just had an epiphany. Sherlock groans, and wishes he hadn't so recently been shot and undergone a life-saving surgery. He'd very much like to stomp away and slam a few doors right now. "That whole time, you were jealous, but you didn't want to admit it. Or me to know."

Jealous? _Him_? Ha. **Ha**!

"I was not jealous," he sniffs, nose in the air. "I simply knew those men were beneath you, and that your relationships would lead nowhere. I was saving you time."

"You were actively keeping me single. Oh my God, Sherlock, that's so...juvenile." Molly couldn't appear more pleased, despite her words. She's grinning ear-to-ear, as though Christmas has come early. "But that...it still doesn't...Sherlock, we haven't even _dated_."

"Dating is _boring_, Molly, and what's the point? We have a _child_. We've spent more hours in the lab together, working on experiments and solving cases, than most people do on 'dates' over the course of an entire relationship. Besides, Mycroft already made it legal, your whole family _and_ Mrs. Hudson believe it to be true, and it will make life simpler when it comes to raising Hamish. The most logical choice is to remain married."

"Sherlock Holmes, I think you're a closet romantic." Molly has a grin like a _shark_.

Sherlock has to fight very hard not to find it endearing. (If he fails, well, he certainly isn't _admitting_ to it.) "I am nothing of the sort. I am, however, incredibly practical."

"Practical, is that what they're calling it nowadays? Well alright then, Mr. Practicality, I agree to remain Mrs. Sherlock Holmes – on one condition."

Sherlock schools his expression into one of indifference, despite his urge to shout. "And that would be?"

"I want wedding photos."

Perhaps it's the painkillers. Perhaps it is simply the smug belief that he had managed to marry Molly Hooper without ever _actually_ going through the Godforsaken process. Or maybe it's simply sheer disbelief that he, the great Sherlock Holmes, has been reduced to..._this_.

"According to our cover story, we've already had a ceremony. So sorry, Molly. I will, however, sit for a family portrait with you and Hamish." A compromise, which is the soul of a good relationship (or so John once said). That should satisfy her, especially as she knows that he avoids being in front of a camera the way others avoid plague victims.

"We'll have several of those, as well. But we'll also have wedding photos. Proper ones."

"But Molly, that means we'll have to...to have a ceremony. With _people_. And a vicar. In a church. With _vows_." He explains all of this slowly and carefully, not quite sure she fully realizes what she's asking for. (Molly is such a _sensible_ woman, really, she can't possibly want all that _nonsense.)_

"Oh yes, Sherlock. We will." Molly leans forward, hands on his knees, and kisses him.

Now really, how is Sherlock supposed to argue with _that_?

-X-

A week after Sherlock's release from the hospital, Molly comes home to find him and John shouting abuse at each other. Mrs. Hudson hovers nervously at the bottom of the staircase, one hand against her mouth as she looks between the open door at the top of the staircase and Molly's wide eyes.

In his car seat, Hamish begins to wail, upset by the shouting.

"They've been at it for ages," Mrs. Hudson leans close to whisper. "I thought if they didn't quit soon, I might call Greg, thought he might pop over and break them apart. I know they need to get it all out after...after all _that_ business, but this is just a bit much, don't you think?"

Molly thinks about the last argument she broke up inside 221B. She's going to enroll John in anger management classes if he keeps this up.

Sighing, she hands Hamish to Mrs. Hudson. "Watch him while I sort this out?"

"Oh, of course, of course. Come on, my love, lets you and I go have a nice chat, hmm? Oh no, your Daddy and Uncle John have you all upset, don't they? My poor precious boy, oh hush now, Nana Hudson is here..." Mrs. Hudson carries Hamish away, shutting the door to her flat behind her.

Molly enters Sherlock and John's (and hers? It's a bit confusing, and she hasn't really worked that bit out yet) flat to find the two men on opposite sides of the living room, shouting abuse.

" – and you left _Molly_ to lie for you, Sherlock! Bloody _Molly_! But that's not enough, is it, oh _no_, you've got to bloody well **_knock her up_** while you're at it, don't you!"

"Don't you bring Molly into this, John, you've no idea –"

"No idea? No _idea_? Listen here, mate, I've got lots more of an idea than you do, given that I was there when you weren't! I held that woman's hair back while she puked thanks to morning sickness, I had panic attacks wondering how I was going to raise _your_ son, and thank you very much, I had to check how dilated she was in a fucking _cab_ because I thought she was going to give birth in the back seat!"

"Check how – you did – _that's my wife_!" Sherlock's voice has gone up a full octave in outrage.

"You ignorant ass, _you never really married her_! And it was a goddamn medical procedure!"

Both men are red faced, on the verge of purple, arms and hands flailing and gesturing madly as they shout. Molly simply has to stand back and take it all in for a moment, astounded at what she is hearing. Finally she puts two fingers in her mouth, giving a whistle so shrill and piercing that they both wince, swinging their heads around to look at her.

"Done fighting over me?" she asks, just a bit ticked off herself. "And I might have a say in some of this, you know."

"Go downstairs, Molly," Sherlock orders imperiously, even pointing to the door. "I'll be down when I've finished setting the good doctor straight."

"Setting the good doc – oh, _oh you just listen here, _**_you_** –" Before John can work himself back up, Molly marches in between them, hands spread out.

"I'm going to pretend you didn't just order me to leave like I'm your dog, Sherlock. The both of you need to calm down. Now."

"How can you be calm about this, Molly? He made everyone think he was dead, he made you lie for him, he left you pregnant and alone and –"

"I helped him fake his death. I lied for him because I wanted him _safe_. I am responsible for my own actions. Sherlock does not dictate everything I do, John." Pausing to a take a deep breath and fighting to keep control, Molly waits a few beats before continuing. "As for what Sherlock did, he did it to keep us all safe. You know Moriarty would have killed you, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson."

"But there could have been another –"

"Could have been, John. Might have been. But we'll never know, because Sherlock and I _both_ did what we had to do. We lied. We faked his death. And in the end it was worth it, because we're all alive, and we have Hamish, now. So maybe instead of shouting like angry children, the two of you could actually discuss your emotions like actual adults."

Both men stare at Molly as though she is speaking Latin and they are clueless. She sighs, tossing her hands in the air. "Fine. You know what, I give up. Shout abuse. Hit each other. I don't care. I'm getting Hamish from Mrs. Hudson, going downstairs, and starting lunch."

She storms out, not bothering to shut the door behind her, and stomps down the stairs, leaving them to it.

Sherlock and John show up in her flat twenty minutes later, both of them rather sheepish and cowed. Sherlock goes so far as to give her a peck on the cheek – in front of John, no less – before shuffling off to play with Hamish. John mutters an apology, then trails after his friend.

Molly counts it as a victory.

-X-

Two weeks after Sherlock and John shout their way through the mine field of their emotions, they begin taking on cases once more. At first Molly sticks to the corners and keeps Hamish downstairs and out of sight, but Sherlock starts migrating crime scene photos and books into her flat, so she returns to spending time upstairs. He paces and holds Hamish, or studies clues and holds Hamish, and explains every jump of logic to the six week old.

John begins dating a now ex-client of theirs, Mary Morstan. She's a pretty, spunky blonde that Molly quite likes. To make matters better she's a cardiologist, and has a stomach of steel, which certainly helps when one spends any amount of time around the world's only consulting detective, his pathologist 'wife', and his ex-army physician blogger.

Through all this, Sherlock and Molly continue to feel each other out.

It isn't particularly easy, not always. But it isn't as terrifying or hard as Molly thought it would be when she imagined his homecoming. Whatever he went through in the months he was gone (he still refuses to talk about it with her, though Molly knows he and John have stayed up late discussing this very subject), it has changed him. He's still Sherlock, clever and brilliant and mad. But he's more content to slow down, to give Hamish baths and follow Molly around.

They talk a lot. Certainly more than before. Sherlock is funny – Molly always knew this, really, but he's more free with his humor. He's slightly more patient, which Molly appreciates; she's an intelligent woman, Molly knows this, but sometimes Sherlock makes leaps that leaves her baffled and flailing in the wind.

"Are you happy?" John asks her. They're in the kitchen, John making a tea tray while Molly prepares lunch. They're working around Sherlock's lab equipment, brought out of storage and cluttering up the kitchen table and counters once again.

In the living room, Hamish is receiving a lecture on tobacco ash. Molly turns to watch as Sherlock begins to detail the subtle art of telling one ash from another, her mouth curling into a fond smile.

"You know what?" she says, her heart warming and swelling in her chest. "I am, John. I really, really am."

"Good," he answers, listing to the side to kiss her cheek. "You deserve it. Listen, though, I was thinking...you and Sherlock, you need your own space, so...I was thinking about finding a place of my own."

"Oh, John, don't be silly. We're a family, all of us. Of course, if you _want_ to leave, or think it's time, then by all means. But don't leave because of me. Sherlock's so happy to be home, and to have his best friend back..."

"Well, I wasn't planning on leaving tomorrow. Before the wedding, I think."

It's strange, to think of Baker Street without John Watson. It's even stranger to think of it including _her_, to know it is her son's first home, where she and Sherlock are making the first steps at a life together. But it's good, too. A sweet, wonderful ache that tastes of new beginnings.

"You could always bunk with Mary," Molly teases.

John's ears turn red. "What? Mary? No. _No_. Maybe, though. I mean. Maybe. But probably not. I...I'm going to take the tea in."

Chortling, Molly follows with their lunch plates on a tray.

-X-

"John is thinking of moving out," says Sherlock as they (Molly; no doubt Sherlock will be up before long, pacing or reading or doing whatever it is he does at three a.m.) prepare for bed.

Somehow, and Molly still isn't sure how, they end up in her bedroom tonight. Hamish's head rests over Sherlock's heart, and he rocks the infant side-to-side, a gentle, almost mindless motion. Molly pauses in the act of brushing out her hair, still wet from her shower, looking up at him with something quite like worry.

"He told you already?" she asks, quietly shocked. She hadn't thought John would bring it up to Sherlock so soon. Not at least for a few more months.

"Molly," Sherlock sighs, lifting an eyebrow at her.

"Oh. Of course, you deduced it. I should have known." Shrugging, Molly returns to her hair, attempting to appear as casual as possible. "And...how do you feel about it? John potentially moving out, I mean."

Lip curling, Sherlock appears briefly in danger of causing himself harm with the force of his sneer. "First John, now you. Soon all we'll do is talk about our _feelings_ and cry on each other."

Molly isn't the least bit impressed. Besides, he wouldn't have brought it up if he didn't want to talk about it. "_Are_ you going to cry? Should I get a box of tissues?" she asks, biting back laughter at the look she's given in response.

Sherlock rises, marching out of the room, still holding their sleeping son. Molly blinks at his back before he disappears, baffled. Hadn't he realized she was teasing? Before she can work herself into a proper fit of nervous worrying, Sherlock returns, minus Hamish but carrying the baby monitor. He sets it on Molly's bedside table, making sure the volume is turned up before snagging the brush out of her hand and tossing it over his shoulder.

"Did you –" Molly starts to ask, and doesn't get a chance to finish before Sherlock begins speaking.

"Hamish has a nursery for a reason. We must start using it at some point. And _no_, Molly, I am not now, nor do I ever intend on crying when John moves away. I suppose this is what happens with normal people, isn't it?" Sherlock presses Molly back until she has no choice but to fall on her back, head on the edge of a pillow as he cages her in with long limbs and a thoughtful expression. "Marriage, children, flat mates finding a new place to live. It's like an experiment."

"We're an experiment?" Molly asks, both breathless and suddenly annoyed.

"No, no, Molly, do try and keep up. _I'm_ the experiment. I'm actually quite convinced you'll take Hamish and leave before long. Find someone more suited for this sort of life. I'm not exactly...ideal, am I?" There is no anger or even fear in Sherlock's voice, only a...bland sort of acknowledgment towards an undeniable fact.

Molly catches his face between her palms, giving him a dark frown. "You _are_ ideal, Sherlock. For me. Not perfect, but I know I'm not either. But I...I really think we can be happy. Together." She knows it will take time and irrevocable data, as Sherlock would call it, to prove her to be right in this matter. It is why she doesn't press harder, doesn't attempt to force this understanding on him when she knows he will come to it in his own time and own way, as he does everything else.

She does lean up and kiss him, an action she has rarely allowed herself to take since he came home. Somehow it seemed too...too forward. Silly isn't it, taking into consideration their child in the next room and how obvious it is that Sherlock _does_ care for her. But things are so...so new, still. And in many ways, Molly is still unsure about what Sherlock actually _wants_. She knows it involves her and Hamish, and most certainly a closer relationship than they had before, but sex? He never seemed interested in it before, and he was certainly very raw after faking his death and forcing John to watch.

It's obvious that he isn't the least bit unsure, not in this. Sherlock sinks down onto Molly, kneeing her thighs apart before settling between them. He kisses her like a starving man brought to water, an oasis in a vast, dry desert. Fingers curl and knot in her hair, holding her in place, as though Sherlock fears she may disappear.

"Is this alright?" he asks, moments before his mouth finds her neck. Molly whimpers, squeezing her eyes shut as she tries to keep herself quiet, fearful of waking Hamish. "I read that some women have an aversion to sexual acts after giving birth, and it can continue for –"

"Not me." Molly wraps an arm around his neck, turning her head to give him better access to the line of her neck. "But you – you've just had surgery –"

"I'm fine," Sherlock insists, pulling irritably at her oversized nightshirt. He works the loose neckline down over one shoulder, humming appreciatively as he finds a collarbone to mark.

"But you could pull your stitches," Molly protests, but weakly.

"Won't. It's fine. Don't care – take this bloody thing _off_, Molly."

It takes a lot of wiggling to get her nightshirt over her head and off her arms, considering Sherlock won't move to allow her to sit up, but it is eventually draped across the opposite side of the bed. Molly almost sobs, biting hard on the inside of her lower lip, as Sherlock gently explores her breasts. They're always swollen and tender now, and she thinks she's going to come out of her skin when he runs his tongue along the soft underside of one.

"Your six week check-up," Sherlock mutters into her skin, the fingers of one hand sliding down her stomach, only to worm their way inside her knickers. His touch is soft, not quite sure, but he finds her clit and strokes it in slow, light circles that have Molly's heels digging into the mattress. "Is intercourse advisable? Do we need to wait?"

"No. No, no waiting, it's fine – it's great – just be gentle – oh God, please, yes, there –"

Her knickers get flung over Sherlock's shoulder, but Sherlock's foot gets tangled in the leg of his pajama pants, and he nearly tips over trying to free himself. Molly can't help but laugh, arms around his shoulders and face in his chest as she giggles, so genuinely _happy_ that she wonders if she'll begin floating, bump into the ceiling and have to think of sad things to get back down.

"God, damn it," Sherlock nearly snarls, naked and frustrated. "Prophylactics. They're upstairs." He starts to bolt up to his knees, and Molly has no doubt he's about to race up the staircase and into his flat for a package of condoms.

"You bought some?" she asks, hooking her legs behind his knees, pulling him back down. Sherlock topples, just barely catching himself on his hands before crushing her wholly against the mattress.

"It was a logical assumption to make, Molly. And we certainly do not need a second pregnancy now, not with Hamish being so young. If you'd – stop doing that and let me –" Sherlock flushes, eyelids growing heavy and drooping as Molly wraps a hand around his thick length.

"I have an IUD now. I thought –" Molly doesn't get to finish her sentence, because Sherlock is lifting her thigh, pushing her hand away from his cock to position himself. It hurts when he begins to push inside, but it isn't overwhelming, certainly not enough to make her ask him to stop. Instead she takes a tight grip on his arms, watching his face as he sinks inside her.

The groan that escapes Sherlock is deep, rough; his head drops, mouth wet and hot against her skin as he fights for control. His hips buck against Molly's, pressing harder into her, before he can still them. The ache it brings is sweet and deep and makes her cry out, digging her blunt, clipped nails into the skin at the small of his back.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, quick and low. "Do you need to me to stop? I can, Molly, I will."

"No, no, no." Twining her legs around the backs of his thighs, Molly fights to hold him in place when Sherlock tries to lift away. "Please don't leave me, Sherlock, _please_. I – I missed –" Tears come unbidden to Molly's eyes. Hasn't she cried enough? Isn't she done yet?

She can't even begin to hold them back when Sherlock begins to make love to her. The handful of times they had before he disappeared to fight Moriarty's empire were desperate, hard, crushing; this is gentle, slow, and so intense Molly thinks the back of her head is going to fly off when she finally finds release. Dimly she is thankful for Sherlock's mouth covering her own, swallowing the wail that comes with her completion.

Sherlock follows her not long after, an arm under her, holding her hips off the bed as he presses as deep as he possibly can into her. "Molly, Molly, Molly," he chants, damp curls sticking to his forehead and side of his face, sweat dripping from his nose, down the long line of his neck.

Afterward, while they both try to catch their breath and Sherlock's seed begins to make its way down Molly's thighs, he curls one large hand over the side of her face. He nuzzles behind her ear, her jaw, the corner of her mouth before asking, "Tell me again, Molly. Please."

Even as dull as she is after sex, her mind a bundle of feathers floating through the air without direction, Molly knows what he is asking for. ("_I love you, I love you, I love you,_" she had chanted at his command, lost as her deceleration spurred Sherlock into an orgasm. The desperation in his eyes and harsh line of his mouth as he broke around and inside of her, it haunted Molly, and still does, leaves her aching and hurting and hot.) Now she lifts a hand, trails fingertips over the thin skin under his eye, down until she's tracing the outline of his full mouth.

"I love you," she says, and it feels as though sunlight is radiating from her smile.

"Again," he quietly demands, _begs_, curling to press his face into her neck.

"I love you, Sherlock."

"No one else, Molly. Never again. I couldn't _stand_ it if you – if you left. You or Hamish."

"Never, Sherlock, never. I swear it. I love you. _We_ love you. And we're always going to be your family."

Molly thinks of the strange, twisted road it has taken to get here, and knows there is more yet to come. But together, she and Sherlock, they _have_ made a family. One that is not just Hamish and themselves, but John, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Molly's Mum, Mrs. Hudson, Aunt Caro, even Sherlock's father and step-mother. They're all connected, each of them links in a chain, heavy and thick and unbreakable.

_Yes_, Molly thinks, fingers sifting through Sherlock's dark curls, _together we're unbreakable._


End file.
